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THE EDUCATION OF 
ERNEST WILMERDING 































Copyright 1923 
COVICI-McGEE CO. J 

CHICAGO 

PZs 

' Edt 


©C1A765849.1/ 

Press of 

/ Printing Service 

JAN 31 ’24 Company 

IL # 

Chicago 


*** -V 


Have you at some time absorbed yourself in watching 
intently an ever-changing heaven of racing clouds, driven from 
low horizon across the dome—and then quickly again to low 
horizon, as if chased by some powerfully invisible force? 

The Age in which we live presents the same picture: each 
morning brings a new surprise—a new feature to life. Accel¬ 
eration is the order of the day; education is an ever-changing 
panorama in which the static does not exist. One may be 
bom, as Ernest Wilmerding was, under one social system, out¬ 
live it, and see the glory of its successor. He saw the incoming 
of the telephone, the electric light, the motor car, the aero¬ 
plane, the hydroplane, the phonograph and the radio. What a 
galaxy of development I 

Then he saw the greater galaxy surrounding and compos¬ 
ing the life of the middle twentieth century. One hundred 
years of experience—at first a slow growth, then constantly 
passing faster and faster. What an education! And here we 
are, all of us now, right in the midst of an unrecognized social 
revolution of which the great majority have no cognizance. 
Will we awaken to the significance of passing events, or keep 
our imaginations dulled in impotence ? 

I realize how chimerical and unpractical these pages will 
seem to many, yet the whole trend of events is toward that to 
which they point. The hypocrisies of life and the insufferable 
stupidities are found on every hand, as the machinery of the 
present system grinds the aesthetic aspirations of the multi¬ 
tudes into the dust rather than directs them toward the skies. 

The names of the master minds whose teachings are 


reflected in the pages of this book are symbolic of the saving 
forces which are, and which will continue to be of the great 
minority to redeem the world from its materialism. True 
spirituality is not an emanation from theologians. These last 
have come, and are going. They are giving place to the power 
of light which constantly enhances before a rising sun. It is 
my belief that many living today will see, as Ernest Wilmerd- 
ing does in the story, the realization of a far happier era for 
the entire human race. I expect all materialists who read this 
book to say: “Another soporific dream.” 

Edward Chichester Wentworth. 

Chicago, Illinois. 

August 10th, 1923. 


“For the earth hringeth forth fruit of 
herself; first the blade, then the ear, after 
that the full corn in the ear ” —Mark IV, 
xxviii. 




CONTENTS 


BOOK ONE 


Chapter I 

The Reverend John Dodson 

PAGE 

1 

II 

Ernest Wilmerding . 

23 

III 

Franciscan Missions 

44 

IV 

The Damascus Road 

67 

V 

Colored Stars .... 

89 


BOOK TWO 


Chapter I 

Fishers of Men .... 

PAGE 

115 

II 

Toy Balloons. 

. 143 

III 

The Importance of Being Ernest . 

. 166 

IV 

The Gospel of Tolstoy 

. 190 

V 

The Heart of a Man 

. 212 

VI 

The Wine of Circe .... 

. 236 


Epilogue. 

. 260 






THE EDUCATION OF 
ERNEST WILMERDING 


The Education 
of Ernest Wilmerding 

CHAPTER I 

The Reverend John Dodson 

The Reverend John Dodson, aged about forty, was, in the 
late seventies of the nineteenth century, the pastor of a strug¬ 
gling Baptist church in the frontier town of San Antonio, 
Texas. Dodson had no personal ambition to be the leader of 
a spiritual flock housing itself within a monumental pile of 
brick and mortar, or to bathe himself in the flooding sunshine 
streaming within the holy sanctuary through expensive win¬ 
dows of glass which stained the outlines of the saints and 
martyrs of the early ages of the Christian church. Quite con¬ 
tented was he to administer, in a compassionate way, to a 
handful of humble folk who gathered at his simple sanctuary— 
an old frame church—on several occasions during the week to 
break the bread of Christ together, and learn the lessons of 
meekness and sobriety falling in accents of great earnestness 
from the respected pastor’s lips. 

Dodson cared little for the world and its affairs. Attired 
in a suit of uncertain vintage, but black in color and clerical 
in cut, with a high collar and tie of a white bow—all sur¬ 
mounted by his auburn sideburns and auburn hair, with the 
proper final fitting of a stovepipe hat, more or less in polish 
from an occasional application along the elbow, he grimly 
fought the fight, conscious of the direct and personal agency 
of Almighty God, who kept the Reverend in the hollow of His 
hand and considered him as one of the army of Abraham to 
make all things ready as against that day of eternal reckoning, 
which was the assured destiny of the human race. 

There is no disturbance of the peace of soul to such as he. 
Each day unwinds itself forth without problems, or a desire 
to create them. At the finality of the religious service each 

[ 1 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


Sabbath evening he would look calmly forward to an unevent¬ 
ful week, warmed by the consciousness of having performed 
his part in the spiritual advancement of the Cause of his Mas¬ 
ter, the Lord Jesus Christ. The orientation of his life was 
toward the Sabbath ending, and at this culmination there 
streamed forth the blazing light of God’s love that showed him 
the open pathway of the week to come. 

Away back in the Egyptian days this orientation of the 
temples served to fix the certainty of coming events. As the 
time of the Spring equinox approached, the rising sun would 
penetrate the narrow opening of the temple to irradiate the 
face of the god above the altar and thus tell the waiting multi¬ 
tude that Spring had come. So the mellowness of his heart, 
in the final benediction at the Sabbath’s close, whispered its 
words of a coming peace for the week to our servant of the 
Most High. Yes, the old sphinx had faced the East for all 
the uncounted centuries and so would he, just as immovable, 
just as supremely oblivious to the sweep of the desert sands of 
life that were the creations of every blowing wind, be con¬ 
fident of the final harbor in which he would find his eternal 
rest and reward. 

To how many, enwrapt in the affairs of a busy existence, 
can this peace of mind come, a peace without understanding, 
but yet the inheritance of the divinely consecrated Son of God, 
satisfied to act at the behest of a Master who is daily breathing 
into his life the message of a holy wish. What strange and 
crude vessels are the conveyors of the word of God. No one, 
to have met Reverend John Dodson would have suspected that 
he was like the old ark of the Covenant, the holder of the 
secrets of the Most High, yet within, his demeanor was of a 
man of the pronounced conviction of a high purpose that had 
devolved upon him to give service to, and when he solemnly 
invoked the benediction at the close of his sermon each Sunday 
night—“and now may the blessing of Almighty God go with 
you, and each of you, through the following days of the week 
until we shall gather again in the House of Prayer”—one 
could but feel impressively the presence of an unknown power 
which gave the healing balm of a peace content. Thus the 
weeks of the years came and went. No other ambition seemed 

[2] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


to stir in his breast; no greater call from on High to seek other 
pastures. 

His modicum of knowledge was sufficient for his daily 
ministrations, and while he might have thought to himself: 
Here, Master, take me and use me as thou wilt; if there are 
other fields to which I may become the shepherd; other vine¬ 
yards where I can gather the fruits after the patient toil of 
cultivation, still I am here content, filling the little niche in the 
plan of a Master whose humble servant I forever am. If he 
was ever reminded of the old carreta, drawn by the patient 
untiring oxen in the pueblos of the newer Spain, into whose 
faces the frontier town of San Antonio looked from the win¬ 
dows of the Franciscan missions, he never expressed himself 
in words of restless dissatisfaction at the slow pace with which 
everything traveled. Why stir up oneself with new thoughts 
or larger ideas—the very suggestion would be like the whispers 
of the evil one who must not be entertained. Was he not doing 
the work of the Master well?—his inner conscience told him 
that. Very well, he would carry on, and await events, and he 
felt his ability to surmount any circumstances which might 
arise. 

One day, following his frequent custom, he took his bible 
and walked to San Pedro Park, where he could sit quietly and 
watch the flowing river with its wriggling snakes and sunning 
turtles, to think out from the stores in the Testaments the 
thoughts he would bring to his people the coming Sunday. 
Musing thus and ejaculating aloud as an occasional argument 
of effectiveness suggested itself, he attracted the interest of a 
well-dressed, middle-aged man who was sitting on the bench 
beside him, engrossed in drinking in the soft Winter air of the 
late January day and feeling the lazy impulse of an idle hour, 
where he could enjoy its carefreeness in the warming rays of 
the Texas sunshine. A stranger, evidently from his dress, and 
an occasional glance at a Louisville paper which he held in his 
hand, he was probably the traveling representative of some 
commercial house in that city which dispensed its wares in the 
southern territories. While he might have been, from the 
smart cut of his clothes and general neatness, a commercial 
traveler pure and simple, there was still an added atmosphere 
of culture and refinement which betokened the man of a larger 

[ 3 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


world than was reckoning only with the problems of sales and 
profits. To such a one, a man absorbed in a book, even though 
that book was the bible, an interest was excited and especially 
as there was plenty of leisure and soft air and sunshine per¬ 
vading, a stimulus to conversation was aroused which could 
not be withheld. 

Dodson’s emotional lips were trembling with the excite¬ 
ment a text had instigated, and upon his giving an unusual 
explosive ejaculation to his inward eloquence, the stranger 
turned to him inquiringly, as if to be allowed to become a part 
of the interesting experience going on within the Reverend’s 
auburn-crowned head. 

“And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness 
even so must the Son of Man be lifted up. Yes, yes, even so 
the Son of Man must be lifted up, that whosoever believeth in 
Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” The tears 
were streaming down his face as he repeated the words again 
and again, and finally turning to the stranger beside him in the 
seat, he realized his sense of fellowship with one whose pres¬ 
ence he had not been before aware of, and in a broken voice 
he said: “Pardon my emotion, sir, I did not think but that I 
was alone and unnoticed. These urgings of the Spirit come 
upon me like an irresistible flood, and I give way to them in 
the immensity of the thrill of joy which they bring with them. 
I do not know, sir, if you are of an emotional nature, but if 
you are, you can enter into these feelings with me; and if not, 
I can assure you that the life of peace is not fully accomplished 
without the great propelling currents of the heart which well 
to the surface and compel one to express audibly what bursts 
from within and must find their satisfaction in outward expres¬ 
sion. As you have observed, I am a clergyman, and the Word 
of God is a well-spring from on high to which I go for refresh¬ 
ment and understanding.” 

“Permit me, sir, to express my admiration for your sin¬ 
cerity of purpose and expression,” the stranger said, “for how¬ 
ever widely I may differ from another in the conclusions he shall 
have arrived at, I am always willing to acknowledge the great 
latitude there is in human thinking, and how often, though in 
most opposite ways, we travel to the same terminal. My edu¬ 
cation has been probably as widely different from yours as any 

[ 4 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


could possibly be, but the strength of any education lies in the 
acknowledgment of the fact that definite conclusions are diffi¬ 
cult to arrive at, and even then seem to be subject to the vary¬ 
ing moods of passing time, as it reflects itself in the great mass 
of thinking that continuously goes on everywhere. Thus it is 
we find the different systems of thought and philosophy preva¬ 
lent and accepted in various parts of the world, and the actions 
of individuals grouped together in certain localities or in 
different latitudes, are alike within themselves but entirely dif¬ 
ferent to peoples of other nations and other climes. It is so 
with me. My early years, until I was twenty, were spent in 
my native city of Louisville, where I absorbed the thought and 
customs of old Kentucky. My family was to ‘the manor born/ 
inheriting the traditions of a number of generations of good 
manners and breeding and of recognized culture and position 
in society. After the beginning of the war between the North 
and the South, at the time I was twenty-two years old and had 
finished my home education, I was sent abroad to secure that 
old world touch of a cosmopolitanism which gave me a refine¬ 
ment in the study of Art and Philosophy I could not otherwise 
get. I spent several years at the University of Bonn in Ger¬ 
many, and there absorbed not only the prevalent ideas of Ger¬ 
man philosophy, which were then world recognized as being 
authoritative, but found the influence of such English scientists 
as Charles Darwin was becoming quite extensive in all of the 
European centres of learning. 

“Science had long been approaching the point of unifying 
in a general system the ideas that were working to a demon¬ 
stration of important theories like the descent of man, and the 
survival of the fittest. It needed only some one brain with a 
sufficient power of classification to take the several threads of 
the theory and put them together concretely, where they could 
exist as an independent factor in the thought of the world and 
be developed through the application of study and enlargement. 
Of course, you being a graduate of a theological school know 
the controversy which followed in all of the Christian coun¬ 
tries of the world. It seemed to most people that the system of 
thinking and belief which had existed for ages and had been 
the governing influence in the lives of countless millions was 

[ 5 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


about to be ruthlessly overthrown and a coldly philosophic 
theory put in its place. 

“I can never forget the shock that came to me, as an 
impressionable young man who had been an assiduous attend¬ 
ant at the Episcopal Church and had never an occasion to 
question the religious doctrines which it represents. Of course, 
I was at Bonn in an atmosphere of scepticism and inquiry, 
where new ideas, even to undermine the foundations of belief 
in any subject, were sought for and welcomed if clothed with 
the semblance of a truth that, emanating from recognized cen¬ 
tres. German philosophers were profound thinkers, and their 
grundlichkeit was an accepted conclusion in all scholarly cir¬ 
cles. After all, had not the old theologic conceptions of the 
cosmic world, as related to a harmonious relationship with 
miraculous religion, been rudely disturbed several times by 
such men as Copernicus, Galileo, and even as late as the time 
of living men who were influenced by the thought of Goethe, 
Kant and David Friedrich Strauss, whose Das Leben Jesu had 
attracted the attention of the intellectual world in its effective 
attack on the miracle in Christianity. 

“But pardon me, sir, I am perhaps speaking too boldly to 
one who is a stranger, and it may be what I say disturbs your 
peace of mind, inasmuch as I take it you are at present much 
absorbed in the study of your bible and perhaps are preparing 
thoughts for a coming sermon. I should have been more con¬ 
siderate in putting my personal experiences forward, especially 
as they must be of a nature that will arouse some feelings of 
opposition and discontent. At any rate I feel that I have 
already trespassed on your attention, but I should be very glad 
to see you again and to know you better. We can all learn 
from each other, and I should be interested to have your reac¬ 
tion to the things I have been constrained to speak to you 
about. I shall be in San Antonio during the month of February 
and am stopping at the Menger Hotel, where I shall be very 
glad to have you call upon me. Perhaps there are phases of 
your life and work here which would give me another and a 
broader viewpoint. As it is, I feel kindly toward any cause 
that is one of enthusiasm. Music, Art and Religion, if cold 
and colorless, have no attraction for my nature, but I respond 
to the one who has a Cause of which he can be eloquent, and 

[ 6 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


this is what attracted me to you when I sat here on the bench 
and saw the tears run down your face as you repeated the old 
text: ‘Even as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, 
so must the Son of Man be lifted up.’ It reminds me of the 
old saying of Rousseau: ‘Socrates died like a philosopher, but 
Jesus Christ like a God’—the difference in temperament that 
brings color and movement to all the things in life and makes 
them virile and real. Here is my card—Thomas J. Breckin¬ 
ridge is my name—the J is for Jefferson—and I am by occupa¬ 
tion an attorney and counsellor-at-law, so you will see I have 
a name and an avocation to live up to, and I mean to do it.” 

Reverend Dodson could not say much in reply—he was 
outclassed to be sure, but his native fortitude and resolution 
quickly came to the rescue as he offered his hand to Breckin¬ 
ridge, and in the strong resonant tones of the practical speaker 
and leader, said: “My dear sir, you also interest me; it is not 
often that I have the privilege of meeting men of your position 
in life, possessing the broad experience in world affairs that 
you evidently have. I think I feel the call of God to make 
some answer to the things that have influenced you in your 
life, and I shall be glad indeed to accept your invitation to call 
at your hotel and consider the subject further. In the mean¬ 
while if you would be interested to attend the service at the 
Baptist Church next Sunday, I shall be glad to see you, as I 
may draw some lessons, very vivid to me, touching on the 
necessity of the death on the cross. I wish you good day, sir.” 
♦ * 

The next Sunday morning the Reverend John Dodson 
bestirred himself early. His face was grimly set in a deter¬ 
mination to be relieved of a multitude of rushing thoughts 
which had crossed and recrossed themselves in his mind since 
the experience with the stranger in San Pedro Park. Of 
course he would preach in the evening, as had been his inten¬ 
tion, on the text of the lifted cross, that whosoever looked and 
believed should not perish but have everlasting life; but the 
subject of the morning was not to him so clear. The moving 
of the spirit within had always suggested the timely subject 
upon which he was to elucidate a text, and after carefully 
examining his concordance, the striking events of the XVII 

[ 7 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


Chapter of Luke seemed to answer to the immediate needs of 
having something on his mind that he would like to formulate 
into a human utterance for the edification of his flock. The 
great bell in the Franciscan Church—San Fernando’s Cathe¬ 
dral—had started its labors before the sun was up, calling the 
faithful of its kind to masses of different degrees, and when 
Dodson heard the stirring peal of this bell he could no longer 
rest, but was up betimes and roused his household to action. 

He had resolved to preach from the lessons of the afore¬ 
said chapter and use the xviii verse as the pivot on which to 
swing his batteries of clinching arguments. “Verily I say unto 
you, whosoever shall not receive the Kingdom of God as a 
little child shall in no wise enter therein.” Here was a ham¬ 
mer he could use on Darwin, and Kant, and Strauss and 
Goethe, and even on Thomas J. Breckinridge if he was within 
hearing, and he proposed with all the vehemence of his ardent 
nature to preach the gospel on that Sabbath day with no uncer¬ 
tain accent. 

He arose from his bed with a great exhibition of muscular 
energy—slipped into his Sunday best with many quick and 
decisive jerks of the fingers and arms, paced up and down the 
room while he fitted buttons with buttonholes, stood before his 
glass with protruding tongue, when his clean white bow was 
obstreperous, and behaved generally like a man bound on a 
great voyage of determination. At one unfortunate juncture 
the refractory collar button refused to adapt itself to its double 
duty of holding the two ends of the collar in place and delib¬ 
erately slipped away from his nervous fingers and found lodg¬ 
ment in a very secretive place away beyond his reach, at the 
furtherest distance from the edge of the bureau upon which 
his mirror rested. Down upon the floor he went his full length, 
upon his back, stretching to his uttermost to reach the rebel 
button which he espied far away and against the wall to which 
his bureau backed. Very red in the face and much out of 
breath, he was yet eloquent with his text of the morning, as he 
triumphantly emerged once again with the captive collar but¬ 
ton, saying, as though to it: “Except as a little child—shall 
they in no wise enter therein.” “I’ll show them, these for¬ 
eigners, who come between my Christ and the people.” 

Of course, he rang his own church bell, there was no 

[ 8 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


money for a sexton, and the seats went undusted from week 
to week, save as sat on and leaned back against by the faithful 
parishioners whose walks in life did not admonish them to 
flick off the dust that might have gathered during the week. 
How the Reverend John pulled the bell-rope that Sunday 
morning—it was like a rallying cry for the faithful to come 
to an attack on the evil one. Every time he pulled, the words 
of the text arose vividly before his eyes: “Whosoever shall 
not receive the Kingdom of God as a little child shall in no 
wise enter therein.” There was no ambiguity in these words— 
they fell clear and strong and resonant as the bell above him 
that was as audibly spreading the message of his mind as he 
could have done himself. Each stroke of the bell was a word 
of the text, and he made as many strokes as there were sylla¬ 
bles so that the whole city of twenty thousand souls should 
know that there was a message to be delivered and that he, the 
Reverend John Dodson, was the executor of Christ from on 
high to deliver it. 

After the bell-ringing, during the half hour before the begin¬ 
ning of the service, it was his habit to go into the little room 
in the basement of the church, which he dignified with the 
name of the pastor’s study, and there go over the chief points 
of his sermon and engage himself in earnest prayer for words 
of conviction to drive the message to the hearts of his hearers. 
Getting down on his knees, his bible clasped within his hands, 
he poured forth his soul in intimate pleadings to the One, who 
to him, was sitting on an eternal throne above, in image like 
himself, with ear ready and willing to listen to his impassioned 
pleas for a divine inspiration. At first, in low pleading tones 
he touched the strings of his emotions, too gently perhaps, 
but—the mounting tide of his enthusiasm arose almost to an 
ecstasy, like the fury of an increasing storm. The psychology 
of all this was that when he afterward entered the pulpit his 
mind was awakened and on the alert, and his thoughts flowed 
like a river from his unloosened tongue, which seemed touched 
with live coals from off the altars of divinity. 

“O Thou great and almighty God,” he prayed, “omnipo¬ 
tent, omniscient and omnipresent—Alpha and Omega, divine 
Creator of the Universe, before whom I, as a humble servant 
bow in the humility of sackcloth and ashes, the least of Thy 

[ 9 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


servitors, yet ardent in the spirit and a willing bearer of 
the message of the Most High to a despairing and hopeless 
humanity, hopeless save as Thou canst reach out Thy helping 
hand and lift it up to stand once more on the firm foundation 
of a faith in our Lord Jesus Christ. I beseech Thee the favor 
of Thy gracious presence with us this morning as I present the 
broken body and the shed blood to my people—may they not 
forget the vicarious suffering of Thine only begotten Son on the 
cross that they might not perish but have everlasting life. 
Thou, Jehovah, God and Father of the chosen people of Israel, 
the same yesterday, today and forever, incline Thine ear to us— 
full of iniquity and short-comings as we are, yet in a humble 
and contrite spirit we approach the great throne of Thy right¬ 
eousness and to beg that Thou wilt overlook our sins of omis¬ 
sion and commission, and breathe anew in us the spirit of uplift 
from our unworthiness, that we may feel the kinship of 
brotherhood with Thy Son, our Savior and Redeemer, Jesus 
Christ.” 

(Movements are heard above as though the choir is about 
to start the service—the little melodeon sounding the prelim¬ 
inary notes to the Choral. This hurried the Reverend John 
somewhat in his devotions, and with the final words: “All of 
which I humbly ask in the name of the Father, Son and Holy 
Ghost,” he arose to his feet and made his way to the pulpit as 
the choir was standing in its place singing the opening piece.) 
To those who noticed at all, the minister seemed to be in an 
unusually ardent and earnest frame of mind and uneasily 
shifted about during the singing, as though anxious to have 
his part in the service begin. In fact, he had emotionally 
worked himself into a fever heat of religious ecstasy in which 
he saw vividly portrayed all the sufferings of Gethsemane. The 
agony on the Mount of Olives was very real to him and he felt 
the indignation of a personal affront, as though someone very 
near and dear to him was the direct object of an overpowering 
brutality. This was realism set to music, and it charmed him 
in its intensity as though some strange hypnotic influence was 
round about which he could not, and indeed did not wish to 
withstand—it was all too sweet to his soul, like some exotic 
fragrance that brought with it a profound languor of satis¬ 
faction. 


[ 10 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


Within himself he knew that all this superabundance of 
mind-fulmination was a reaction to the words of the cultured 
stranger with whom he had so unexpectedly conversed while 
sitting on the bench in San Pedro Park. He had not at the 
time comprehended the stirring value of the new thoughts 
which the stranger had brought to him, of an essentially antag¬ 
onistic nature to be sure, but he now realized the danger with 
which such suggestions would confront the old systems of 
theology. There was a comfortable feeling with the allure¬ 
ments of the old religious ideas. St. Paul’s words were such 
an intimate association in his life and with all who were faith¬ 
fully devoted to the precepts of his different epistles. Certainly 
his was a religion of devout humility: “God forbid that I 
should glory, save in the Cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ,” 
were remarkable words to proceed from the new convictions 
of a lawyer who had been an ardent persecutor of the latest 
sect. With this spirit of humility it seemed that nothing could 
make any serious headway against the system of Christianity, 
but could it be possible that the new philosophy of critical 
scholarship would find humility vulnerable as the doctrine of 
life? Dodson thought not, and yet there was that little seed 
of scepticism, planted in his mind by the recent conversation, 
that had given him a touch of the fever of doubt which reacted 
upon his combative nature and forced him unconsciously to 
take up, in a vociferous way, the cudgels of arguments in 
Christianity’s defense. 

This he was determined now to do—here was his great 
opportunity to keep his own people safe and warn them of any 
untoward steps toward imbibing unsettling ideas—it is not 
probable they would—they were not the kind who worried 
much about new thoughts, the old were good enough for them 
and had served their progenitors away back as far as they 
cared to remember. All they needed was a religion to die by, 
life in itself was but a transmission and did not particularly 
concern them excepting they knew they had to live in order to 
die, but dying was the main thing because it was the exit to 
eternal blessedness, which consisted mainly in a conception of 
an endless harmony of existence without work, and work to 
them was a drudgery which they only endured because there 
seemed to be no other way. They had heard of more favored 

[11] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


ones, who got along by letting others shoulder the burdens, but 
they were a far away people who only came to them through 
the hearsay of some of the gossips who liked to retail stories 
about the doings of the big-wigs that floated to them in a hazy 
sort of mist, like the fairy tales of childhood. 

All these thoughts rushed through his fevered mind like 
an express train while he waited for the choir to finish, and he 
also glanced eagerly through his audience to see if perchance 
Thomas J. Breckinridge was among those present. In this he 
was disappointed, but it did not affect him one way or the 
other very much, for he had determined to call upon him at 
his hotel very shortly and have an earnest conversation with 
him about the spiritual life. He knew he would be the better 
prepared for it after thinking the problems out alone to his 
congregation, in a sermon which would have a settling influence 
on his own mind by hearing his voice declaim the convincing 
facts of the gospels themselves. 

“Brethren, the text I bring to you this Sabbath morning 
will be found in the seventeenth chapter of the gospel accord¬ 
ing to St. Luke, at the eighteenth verse: ‘Verily, I say unto 
you whosoever shall not receive the Kingdom of God as a little 
child shall in no wise enter therein.’ This seventeenth chapter 
of Luke is one of the deeply profitable mines of the New 
Testament. It teaches largely the simplicity and humility of 
the Christian religion. No one who earnestly and honestly 
seeks to know what this religion is can fail to find it fully set 
forth in this most illuminating chapter. The contrast of the 
pharisee and publican, the childishness of the wise and the 
wisdom of the simple, the futility of riches, all go to make up 
in a few sentences the cardinal features of our religion. It 
has always taken its scoffers unawares because of its sim¬ 
plicity; it has perplexed the learned and scholarly at all times 
from the fact that it has no mysteries or problems to be solved. 
Those golden words: ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and 
thou shalt be saved/ were so direct and unostentatious that the 
Pharisaical class was bound to ridicule the whole scheme as 
visionary, and fit only for the ignorant and slaves. As long as 
God reinforced his words by miracles there could be no ques¬ 
tion of the ultimate success of the program, and it was so 
indeed that Christianity spread rapidly throughout the western 

[12] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


world and became its Master. After a while it grew to such 
power that miracles were not considered necessary and the 
church held its own through the gathered force of the cen¬ 
turies, in which it had been the stabilizing factor in the lives 
of nations as well as individuals. So the miraculous receded 
into the distance of long years past, but the belief in them was 
as ardent as when they were realities in the eyes of the multi¬ 
tudes. Today, some, who know not what they do, are striving 
to emasculate and devitalize our religion by saying that miracles 
are and were impossible and only the fantastic ‘imaginings of 
the ignorant and superstitious.’ 

“But we must stand firmly on the rock of our faith in the 
words and doings of our Lord and Master. Surely there is 
no uncertain sound there, and who so has the real faith need 
find no difficulties in remaining constant and trusting to the 
end. When the people said to Him after He had spoken: ‘It 
is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than 
for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven—who 
then can be saved?’ He gave the reply which I can still give 
you today when you have your doubts and are troubled of 
mind: ‘What is impossible with man is possible with God.’ 
And so it will be to the end, my dearly beloved brethren. 
Fortify yourselves with the gospel of salvation, ever mindful 
that the eye of God is upon you—as he kept the remembrance 
of the sparrow even unto each feather on its breast. Such 
another guardianship was never known, and we should be 
indeed proud that we are the constant objects of the mind of 
the Almighty, and thereby there is no opportunity for the evil 
one to snatch us away from the fold. I adjure you, my 
brothers and sisters, to keep your lamps trimmed and burning 
that the coming of the Lord may find you ready and prepared 
for an entrance into the heavenly home he has gone to make 
ready for you. Remember always, we are a people set apart 
for a special purpose, the Lord’s anointed, chosen because we 
have unquestioningly placed our future in His hands, trusting 
for the coming of a day when He will establish His Kingdom 
eternal in the Heavens. And so I beseech you again to keep 
always in mind the text God has put it into my heart to preach 
to you from this morning: ‘Verily, I say unto you whosoever 
shall not receive the Kingdom of God as a little child shall in 

[13] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


no wise enter therein/ With this final admonition I commit 
you to the care of God.” 

The congregation rises with the choir, and while the latter 
sings in low and earnest tones, the people stand with their 
heads bowed as in silent prayer. Dodson places both hands 
before him across the open bible on the pulpit, making ready 
to raise them in benediction when the voices of the choir cease. 
The sun, which has been hidden in clouds through the service, 
breaks forth brilliantly and floods the church with its light and 
warmth, shining on the face of the pastor as he uplifts his face 
toward heaven, as though in an ecstasy of adoration, while the 
choir sings, and with it some of the congregation: 

In the cross of Christ I glory , 

Towering o'er the wrecks of time; 

All the light of sacred story 

Gathers round its head sublime. 

When the woes of life o’ertake me , 

Hopes deceive or fears annoy; 

Never shall the cross forsake me — 

Lo, it glows with peace and joy. 

Bane and blessing , pain and pleasure 
By the cross are sanctified; 

Peace is there that knows no measure — 

Joys that through all time abide. 

As the last soft note ceases in the midst of a great silence 
the voice of the pastor, low and with great solemnity, invokes 
the benediction: “Now the God of peace that brought again 
from the dead our Lord Jesus, that great shepherd of the 
sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant, make you 
perfect in every good work to do his will, working in you that 
which is well pleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ, to 
whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.” 

♦ * * * 

The next day was logically a day of rest and relaxation 
for the Reverend Dodson. Monday was his day—no one could 

[14] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


confiscate or appropriate its hours as though they were not 
entirely his, to do with as he liked. If he should feel inclined, 
of course, to do some pastoral work in the way of social calls, 
it would merely mean that that was his own choice of spending 
his leisure. He liked to turn the word over in his mind and 
have the smug feeling that he had no responsibilities to meet 
on this one day of the week which were not encompassed by 
the word “duty.” True, he would be dutiful if by so doing 
the duty became a pleasure, but he wanted relaxation, and that 
was the way for a hardly driven man to get it—yes, even a 
philosophical way. The word “philosophical” as it glimmered 
through his mind startled him—it even hurt him a little, as 
though some one had thrown a stone—and on his day of rest 
at that. What was he to do with this bugaboo of a thing which 
had entered into his life to create such a disturbance in his 
hitherto peaceable existence. He didn’t exactly know, and 
was inclined to pooh-pooh the phantom as it flitted around and 
made grimaces in his face and executed fantastic capers which 
made him feel uncomfortable as though he was the direct and 
particular object of attack. Why should he be singled out? 
He was a humble preacher in a sphere of influence of little 
account—he would think this hobgoblin, or whatever it was, 
might seek larger game somewhere else. Then he felt a little 
flattered with its attentions. Why should Thomas J. Breckin¬ 
ridge have thought it worth his while to have bestowed so 
much attention on him and even invite him to his hotel for a 
more extended acquaintance. And then all the old warnings 
of the scriptures came in a flood rush to him: “Beware of 
the devil in sheep’s clothing,” etc., and he became conscious, 
just at that moment, of trying to thrust something away which 
was standing in front of him with leering eyes. 

He was very much startled to awake to the fact that he 
had been walking about and mechanically directed his steps to 
the post office, in front of which he now stood, and the friendly 
voice of Mary Jarvis, the postmistress, saying to him: “For 
goodness sake, Mr. Dodson, whatever is on your mind? I 
believe the devil is after you.” This brought the Reverend 
John to his senses, and with a quick-about-face, he said: “Good 
morning, Sister Jarvis, you must be mistaken; I am sure he is 
not round about where you keep yourself.” Going in, under 

[15] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


cover of the confusion which this little flattery brought to the 
face of the good woman, he got his usual supply of weekly 
papers and a few letters, to hear her say: “Oh, Mr. Dodson, 
you were so comforting yesterday; I could not keep away from 
the evening service after what you said in the morning. I 
reckon the spirit of God was with you mightily. I brought 
some of my boarders down for the first time, and they are from 
the North, where they hear only the best, you know, and they 
said some awfully good things about you; I think you have 
made some regulars, if their enthusiasm keeps up. You never 
can tell, though. I believe in the old steadies that are the same 
yesterday, today and forever—those are the ones you can 
depend on; but Mr. and Mrs. Snow and Mrs. Borland are 
intelligent people who read books, and when they agree that a 
thing is good it must be. You haven’t made a pastoral call up 
our way for a month, and I should advise you to come and get 
acquainted, and see if what I am telling you isn’t so. You 
know I think a lot of you, parson, and want to help things 
along—and you do set me mighty right every Sunday, so I feel 
better all through the week.” 

“Well, well, Mrs. Jarvis, you are one of my best friends, 
and it does me a lot of good, as it does anyone, to be told that 
he is appreciated. I shall come, and that soon, and shall be 
glad to know these people—you can expect me. Today I am 
going to the Menger Hotel to meet a gentleman from Louis¬ 
ville who is visiting San Antonio for a few weeks. I had the 
pleasure of making his acquaintance a few days ago in an 
accidental sort of way, but his manner was very cordial and 
he invited me to call to see him at his hotel. As long as this 
is my day of dissipation, I think a visit with him will be very 
pleasant. I should like to get him interested in our church, 
although I am certain he does not know very much about Bap¬ 
tists and their doctrines. He said he invariably attended the 
Episcopal Church at home, and that always makes me think 
of the Catholics. I don’t see much difference between the two, 
but I am afraid he is not a very good church man. Anyway, 
he said he was a graduate of some German university, and I 
know there is nothing good can come from that. There is such 
a thing as knowing too much, Sister Jarvis. They say: ‘A 
little learning is a dangerous thing,’ but when a person learns 

[16] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


so much he gets in a very dissatisfied and uncertain state of 
mind and doesn’t know just which way to go. I believe in the 
old-fashioned rules of ‘reading, writing, and arithmetic.’ If a 
young person gets these pretty well learned and has the love 
of God in his heart, he needn’t know a lot more to get through 
the world, and that is the main thing to keep in mind, you 
know. When we get to our heavenly home we shall all be 
alike, and this knowing everything and speaking different lan¬ 
guages won’t count much in the Lord’s sight. I reckon he’ll 
want to know about how many souls we saved, and if we kept 
the commandments, and went to church every Sunday.” 

“Yes, yes, Mr. Dodson, that’s what I think. When I 
notice that these literary people are finding fault with some¬ 
thing or another, the first thing I know they begin to doubt the 
miracles, and say: ‘ ’Taint so,’ and ‘You don’t have to swallow 
everything to be a Christian.’ I see enough of it around here 
to keep me on my guard—and I know you will stand by the 
faith, Mr. Dodson, and that’s why I want all my boarders to 
go and listen to you.” 

“Thank you, Sister Jarvis, I need your prayers. I think 
I will go now and see my Louisville friend. Goodbye, and God 
bless you!” 

With this he started off at a lively gait, spurred on by the 
soft air of the February spring that was at hand and which 
inspired him to an inner feeling of the power of accomplish¬ 
ment. Arriving at the hotel, he inquired of the clerk if Mr. 
Breckinridge was in, and seated himself in the office while the 
boy took his name up to Mr. Breckinridge’s suite of rooms. 
Soon the answer came for Mr. Dodson to come up at once— 
that Mr. Breckinridge would be very glad to see him. He even 
came part way down the one flight of stairs to greet him per¬ 
sonally, and seemed in every way to be gratified at the pas¬ 
toral call. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Dodson,” he said, in giving him a warm 
grasp of welcome, “I was detained last Sunday from accepting 
your kind invitation to the church service by an unexpected 
call to Houston which kept me until too late, and I am only 
now just back and rested from my trip. I am here partly on 
business, so that my outing is not entirely free from interrup¬ 
tions of this kind, and I do not know just when I shall be 

[17] 


THE EDUCATION OF * 


called upon to make a hurried departure. I trust, however, 
you had a splendidly satisfactory day of it—I know you did 
from your ardent nature, which gives you enjoyment in every¬ 
thing you undertake.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Breckinridge, you are so cordial and 
whole-hearted. I wish I had a few like you to help hold up my 
hands here in San Antonio; sometimes it is so discouraging to 
feel that, outside of the help from on High, one has no real 
stimulation.” 

“Yes, that’s the sorry part of it all, Mr. Dodson, and I am 
afraid you will have to fight it all out yourself along these 
lines. I have a deep conviction that that would be the funda¬ 
mental difference between you and me—and your belief and 
my philosophy. The doctrine of evolution does not have much 
use for anything that leans on somebody or something else. 
One must stand erect on his own structure and remain or fall 
from its inherent strength. I am afraid the Christian doctrine 
of humility will lose caste when the shadow of the philosophy 
of the survival of the fittest falls across its path. But the great 
conflict between the old and the new ideas is yet to come. We 
are just at the beginning of great disputations. Europe and 
some parts of this country are now experiencing intense dis¬ 
cussions between the pulpit and the scholars, and it is evident 
the coming generations will see some pretty hard knocks given 
and taken. Of course the people of the Southern States do 
not change much—the ideas of the fathers on most of the sub¬ 
jects of life prevail with the children. It is especially so with 
the religious people of states like Texas, and you may expect 
some day even to find the legislature enacting laws against the 
teaching of these subverting doctrines in the public schools and 
universities, if they endanger the life of the Church.* I for 
one do not think that you can legislate against the thinking of 
people, if they want to think, but it prevents the teaching 
openly of things that disturb what we may consider the funda¬ 
mentals of society.” 

“Yes, but God will circumvent these evil doctrines in His 
own way,” said Mr. Dodson warmly; “you can’t expect He will 

* This prediction proved true, for we read that the lower House of the Texas 
Legislature passed, in February, 1923, an anti-evolution bill by a vote of 66 to 34, 
prohibiting its teaching in the public schools of the State. 

[18] 



ERNEST WILMERDING 


tolerate a system of thought that seeks to overthrow a religion 
He has taken so many centuries to establish, and which has 
been the comfort and solace of so many despairing people. 
Where would those who mourn and repent of their sins go if 
they didn't have the blessed gospel of Christ to turn to ? There 
would be no place of refuge—the cold thought of philosophy 
never could fill the place of the love of God which is ever their 
sustaining strength in times of trouble. When I go to comfort 
the widow and the fatherless, or the afflicted in any way, I must 
take a divine message to them—something that is above and 
beyond them, and greater than they—then they feel the strength 
of a powerful force that takes them in His personal charge 
and gives to them the assurance that they most need in their 
time of peculiar trouble. There is nothing else that I know of 
that can do this. All your philosophy and doctrines of evolu¬ 
tion will not dry one tear from their eyes or afford one shred 
of comfort to their minds. This is where everything but the 
love of God as manifest in His son, Jesus Christ, Our Lord, 
fails, and it is at these critical times in the lives of people that 
we most need the healing balm which brings comfort and joy 
out of sorrow and darkness. 

“It is probable that you, sir, in your life of plenty and 
general comfort in its luxuries, have not been brought face to 
face with vicissitudes which would seem almost overwhelming 
if you did not have a sure rock of salvation to lean upon. I 
pray that you may take counsel with your better nature before 
it is too late and not let the hope of the old gospel depart from 
you. As you grow older you will feel, with your departing 
strength of body and mind, the need of a glorious hope to 
sustain you when the final exit comes.” 

“Well, Mr. Dodson, I expect that you and I, sincere and 
earnest as we both may be, will never agree on the question of 
religion. While I am willing to allow my neighbor to enjoy 
his life in his own way, providing it does not interfere with 
me in doing the same, still if my brain tells me that certain 
things hitherto believed to be true are only sophistries, and 
that the saying, ‘When ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise,’ 
is terribly injudicious, to put it mildly, I want to be at liberty, 
and indeed it is my greater duty to myself to follow the lead¬ 
ings of that brain, no matter where they take me to. It is the 

[19] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


only way to progress. All nature teaches, according to my 
thinking, that progress is the law of life, and that what seems 
to be the truth and right today very likely may be, in the new 
light of tomorrow, not true at all, or perhaps only a half truth. 
I must lend myself to this development; I must be prepared to 
throw away my sweetest convictions if they seem without 
foundation on re-thinking them in another mood. I believe 
that all religion so called limits one’s horizon—certain tenets or 
commandments are laid down, and if one believes them and 
lives them he is called a follower of that particular sect. He 
is circumscribed by these things. Either he must yield himself 
to them or they must break with the strength of growing 
thought. If they are man-made they will change as men 
change; if they are God-made they soon represent old ideas 
that are unchangeable in a changing world—an impossibility. 
Religion creates prejudice. I shall never forget my visit to the 
Passion Play at Oberammergau. After experiencing the thrill¬ 
ing scenes of that stirring drama where Jesus dies on the cross 
just as really as he did on Calvary, and how the tears came to 
my eyes, and I felt a desire to know that gentle, peaceful soul 
who impersonated Him. I found him quietly at work at his 
trade, and could not resist the feeling of approaching a divine 
Son of God as I said to him: ‘What is to save us from all our 
troubles? Here we are in the midst of this peaceful scene and 
still the world is restless and full of disturbing things,’ and he 
said to me, totally unlike the man on the cross: ‘It’s the 
Jews—we must get rid of the Jews.’ My little girl Tessa, who 
was listening, said impatiently, as though electrically shocked 
at the unexpected reply: ‘Isn’t that a strange thing for Jesus 
to say?’ And that is an apt illustration of what I mean when 
I say that religion creates prejudices. It always has, and seems 
unable to see things on an equal basis—prejudice of race, color 
or sex—these have been the bane of the world, and no religion 
has been able to place the axe at the root of these evils and 
destroy them. Creating humility and following a code religion 
has not destroyed a single prejudice that I know of, but the 
higher the wall a religion builds between itself and another, the 
more numerous and stronger grow the other prejudices. Now 
this is not so with philosophy and natural law—they know 
nothing of the kind—nothing except a striving after the truth; 

[20] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


and truth once established marks a development in the history 
of the race which can never be reacted from. There is no 
bloodshed or animosity in science. It unfolds itself like the 
beautiful bud of the rose—one leaf after the other, all true and 
wonderful—and finally there is the fragrance of the full blos¬ 
som. And this can go on indefinitely with the culture of the 
mother bush, improving with each effort at creation. 

“I think this is the wonderful thing about life and its 
gradual development throughout all these countless centuries, 
from the first little movement in the still waters on the shore 
of some great ocean, down, down through the ages, until man 
becomes its highest expression, and then his unfolding in all 
the sense growth which has come to him like the bursting of 
the flower into its best expression. Mr. Dodson, much as I 
admire a religion of the heart, which is emotional and intends 
to be loving and kind and generous, I admire the greater 
religion of the mind which takes one to the mountain tops and 
shows him all of the kingdoms of the world, and tells him to 
go and possess them, for all things are possible to the man of 
courage and will. No knowledge too vast for the one who 
determines to encompass it; no truth so hidden that it cannot 
be revealed. As man’s brain develops through the increasing 
pressure of thought, so will his knowledge of unseen and 
unknown things increase, until the things which seem unthink¬ 
able today will become matters of common knowledge tomor¬ 
row. We cannot define space nor truth today, but what about 
next year—or the next century? ‘Verily, I say unto you there 
is nothing hidden that shall not be revealed’—all things are 
possible to the growing mind; there is no hope in anything else. 
The happiest people, after all, are the most cultured, for the 
riddles of the ignorant are foolishness to them. The ignorant 
live yet in the childhood of knowledge—the cultured are the 
vanguard to a still more sublime existence in which the sanity 
of mental balance is the axis of rotation. One has only to 
leave his little sphere of existence and go out into the greater 
world of culture to see for himself what his relative position 
in life is. To be satisfied with a given system of thought and 
action is a sign of mental decay. One must be ever on the alert 
to grasp the newest expressions in the great world of progress 
and adapt them to his environment, for only in this way will 

[21] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


each individual do his part towards the betterment of the 
human race. I fear I have not only tired you, Mr. Dodson, but 
you probably feel in your heart a despair at such an evidence 
of the effect of study and travel on a human being, but the 
expression is as sincere as your own, and must take its place 
to stand or fall by the weight of accepted human knowledge.” 

Said Mr. Dodson in answer: “I can do no less than pray 
to God every day to open your eyes to your unbelief—rest 
assured that I shall do so with all the power that in me lies. I 
shall hope to keep your acquaintance while you remain in San 
Antonio. Do not forget that St. Paul himself was a man who 
fought the battle of unbelief to no avail, and finally through 
the grace of God became the great apostle of the faith. It 
may be that you will see the light which he saw.” 
******** 

Into this atmosphere of Texas sunshine and of the rugged 
religious thought of the Reverend John Dodson was the impres¬ 
sionable mind and frail physical structure of Ernest Wilmer- 
ding introduced in the early Spring of 1879. 


[221 


CHAPTER II 


Ernest Wilmerding 

Ernest Wilmerding had experienced his nineteenth birth¬ 
day late in the year 1878. The holidays had come and gone 
and he was looking into a new year with the perplexities which 
accompany an ardent, active nature that has already lived 
supremely in the emotional realm, but whose physical strength 
is somewhat failing because of a rapid growth and close appli¬ 
cation to things in life which seemed to militate against a 
strong bodily health to accompany a blossoming soul. The 
cluster of years which were most vigorous in his memory had 
been spent at the home of his parents in Chicago, a home of 
comfort, but of no especial culture. Whatever of the emotional 
he had in him—and there was much of it—flowed from some 
hidden spring away back in unknown generations, which was 
bound to re-manifest itself at a given opportunity. Ernest 
might have expressed his emotions in art, poetry, song or 
religion, but having no guide but himself to point a direction, 
he fell in naturally with the way nearest at hand. As the spirit 
of his environment was religious, he made that the special vent 
of his moods of expression. Religion was a much more 
serious and influential thing in the year of grace 1879 than it 
has been since, for then the atmosphere was being charged and 
counter-charged by such potent factors as Moody and Sankey 
on the one hand and Robert G. Ingersoll on the other. It was 
as vital to take one's place on one side or the other as it was 
to be a republican or a democrat in politics. 

The virus of new thought was beginning to work, and 
men's minds were stirred with the apparent destruction of 
ideas to which the world had clung as long as the pages of 
history could narrate. But new thought in religion was also a 
reaction to the greater ideas which were growing in these 
minds about human liberty of person and privilege, every¬ 
where throughout the country. The civil war had turned the 
sod of thought as nothing else could have done, and when the 

[23] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


great industrial procession afterwards began to move to build 
railroads and open up the vast plains of the West to the occu¬ 
pancy of the unsatisfied millions of Europe, there naturally 
started strong currents of discussion and disputation on many 
themes which had lain dormant through the earlier years of 
the nineteenth century. 

When Ernest first saw the light of day, the gigantic strug¬ 
gle to liberate those held in the bondage of physical slavery 
was about to commence. Away back to the days of John 
Brown, he could hear the echo of that brave voice speaking 
out from the darkness of his marching soul, hopeless, but sure 
of the rightness of the Cause to which he had delivered his 
life, but with the reward of a great resurrection of public 
opinion, which arose as a whirlwind to forever sweep that 
particular form of iniquity from the face of the Nation. 

Ernest opened his eyes to the green hills and beautiful 
valley of the silver winding Connecticut, dividing and nourish¬ 
ing the slave-hating States of New Hampshire and Vermont 
by the moisture of its moving flood. In a sweet, old, white 
Colonial house with yellow and red roses blooming on either 
side of the centre-placed doorway, scattering their fragrant 
message to the soft June days and dropping their petals on the 
pathway of summer until the vistas of autumn broke to the 
observing eye the mellow red apples hanging in the green of 
the trees that shaded the brick pathway leading from the house 
to the gate. The mother, in the sweet patience of young mar¬ 
ried life, was awaiting, too, her autumn fruition, and while life 
and John Brown were parting with each other forever, the first 
day’s glimpse of a genial world smiled on the face of Ernest in 
the November sunlight. How well his memory haunted those 
younger years after memory became consciousness—the little 
room on whose walls grew the patterned roses of paper, and 
through whose opened windows came the sweet pure air of the 
outer life, burdened with the scent of the pines which clothed 
the sides of the hills across the roadway. His listening ears, 
too, heard the sound of the locomotive’s whistle and he smelled 
the fragrance of the burning wood which furnished the fuel 
as the train swept by on the side of the hill, going in and out 
amongst the trees and giving to his young mind its first-born 
thoughts of the world as being big and wide, and that the 

[24] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


engine was a busy something trying to touch the different parts 
with a message from him to someone else of what he was 
doing, who told it to return to tell him of what the other was 
doing, and if he had anything to send he could do so and have 
something sent him in return. 

And so the thought gradually evolved that the world was 
not his possession alone, but belonged to everyone alike. And 
then when he was hungry he thought of the bread and milk in 
the little blue china bowl and the old pewter spoon with which 
he ate, and his grandmother about with her lace cap and spec¬ 
tacles, saying when he grew noisy: “Little boys should be 
seen and not heard/’ shaking her finger, but then beckoning 
for him to go with her out to the kitchen, where stood the old 
stone reservoir from the bottom of which bubbled up the cold 
spring water out of the gravel of the hills—then to reach down 
into the depths of the reservoir for one of those stone bottles 
which held the root beer whose taste was so refreshing in the 
hot summer days. Old-fashioned grandmother! Knitting and 
weaving and spinning while the white marble gold-figured 
French clock passed the hours with the strokes of a silver 
bell; and old-fashioned grandfather with his scythe and whet¬ 
stone, and his “cluck” to the patient horses, and his “shoo” to 
the chickens that raided the worms in the flower beds. Then, 
after the work, sitting in the old easy chair with a glass of 
“grog” in his hand, smacking his lips over the Jamaica rum 
and talking about the war and his son who had gone to take 
his part in it. In all these quaint old figures were the lines of 
New England ancestry going back—and then further back 
again to the beginning, in their atmosphere of simplicity and 
their strict adherence to undeviating rules of life. How nar¬ 
row, and yet how dignifiedly plain! Freedom to worship God 
in their own way for them, but no liberty for anyone else who 
worshipped God in any other way. 

He saw in his mind’s eye the landing of the Mayflower ‘on 
a stem and rockbound coast,’ and the strained faces of suffer¬ 
ing that came to those inhospitable rocks on that Massachusetts 
December. He saw the kindly faces of the natives who knew 
nothing of the white man’s vices, or virtues, and welcomed him 
to their sweet simplicities. And then he saw the Puritan stern¬ 
ness become hatred and impatience, unwillingness to be tol- 

[25] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


erant, and the misery and despair, both to themselves and their 
slow-yielding victims. He saw the word Intolerance come 
out of the mist like a disturbing skeleton to give him the first 
hint as to a basis of scepticism. How these spectres once 
introduced into a plastic soul will sneak about, hiding in the 
shadows, and only now and then darting out into the open, as 
if to destroy or unsettle a peace of mind that received life with 
complacency and satisfaction. Ernest Wilmerding was slow in 
growing into a fully developed mentality. He saw through a 
glass darkly largely because he had no environment of dis¬ 
turbing factors. In those New England hills he learned to 
love Nature because its loveliness was thrust upon him at every 
hand. His memory turned to a day when in the adolescence 
of his boyhood he took the long, hard climb up the mountain 
of Ascutney, and from its rocky heights looked in ecstatic won¬ 
derment down the Valley of the Connecticut as far as the eye 
could reach, with the summer sun shimmering on the silver 
thread of the glorious river as it rushed its turbulent message 
to the sea. Ah! Silver chord of river! You are a glowing 
memory that holds the sacredness of childhood life in the 
prison house where Time ministers faithfully in all the pass¬ 
ing years. 

And so the panorama passes from East to West, with the 
inheritance of New England generations carried along to 
the newer soil of the opening world—the newer world of the 
restless, struggling city of Chicago—different types in the 
openhandedness of a newer civilization, building from the gen¬ 
erosity of greater fields and forests. Then the coming of a 
great fire to that city, sweeping it to a charred blackness of 
ruin, but yet with a quick resurrection, and with it a greater 
advent of railroads and immigrants, the forming of groups of 
foreign-speaking peoples, the building of schools and churches 
of strange design, the intermingling of his ideas with their 
ideas, the conflicts and the shadings of opinions and convic¬ 
tions. Intermarriages and the newer generation of Europe 
and America welded. Then business depression with failing 
banks and savings depositories unable to meet their obliga¬ 
tions, followed by a quietness of retrenchment and repair to 
which was added a great religious revival with the same old 
Puritan note sounding: “Thou shalt have no other gods before 

[26] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


me”; then the sudden re-awakening of business laid on the 
foundation of the gold standard—all of these in the quick suc¬ 
cession of the years of a short generation and deftly molding 
a plastic mind, fixing its destiny in the conservation of accepted 
ideas. And he pondered now that his memory was merged 
into a present reality and the familiar outlines of his beloved 
church displaced his thought of the other years. How he loved 
to mount the storied steps and, in the reverence for the sabbath 
day, enter to take an accustomed place amongst its spacious 
sittings. The well-known faces, young and old, the intense 
realities of this religion in their lives, the gracious presence of 
the beloved pastor, his constant and ringing appeals to “Be 
ye also ready, for the Lord cometh in an hour that ye know not 
of.” The music of the grand organ and the full-voiced choir— 
the hush of prayer—the quiet of the passing of the sacramental 
bread and wine: “For this is my body that was broken for 
you, and my blood that was shed for you, for as often as ye 
shall eat of this bread and drink of this wine in my name my 
spirit shall be present with you. This do ye in remembrance 
of me.” 

All these worked their psychology of emotion on a willing 
mind—one quick to be transfigured by the deep mysticism of 
an undefinable beauty that was groping within to find an out¬ 
ward expression. How often had he sat in adoration of those 
great windows of stained glass through which the mellow sun¬ 
light streamed, subdued, but with a sacred softness that gave 
endowment to the spoken word. Around those great windows 
frescoed texts of inspiration and admonition: “God forbid 
that I should glory save in the cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ,” 
and “Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the 
world.” His young life felt the thrill of the great apostle, and 
in memory went out on the road to Damascus to hear those 
words of vital meaning: “Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou 
me?” His soul lit up by the light of a Christ whose second 
coming seemed of daily imminence, became ecstatic and full of 
a softened love for all the world, and he, too, felt that he was 
a miserable sinner and would some day find his road to Damas¬ 
cus and hear the thrilling words of command which would 
change his whole life into one of glorious victory, as in the 
whirl of a mighty tornado. Would this not be lifelong peace 

[27] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


and with the comfort of an abiding faith which would change 
not until the end ? 

From his high school days, now just past, he suddenly 
remembered the old story of the Land of the Lotus Eaters. It 
had never impressed him before, but now, just as that old word 
Intolerance had flashed across his mind when he was think¬ 
ing of the Puritans, so this story came to him from somewhere 
out of the depths. Perhaps some invisible ancestor, speaking 
to him from a buried century, giving him another suggestion 
of doubt about things which seemed so terribly real to him, 
and so terribly true, that he could not believe but what the 
“yesterday, today and forever ,, had come into his possession, 
and he need never fear that disturbing factors would enter into 
and distract this dream life that he was immersed in. And he 
thought the story all over again—it welled up in him whether 
he would or no, how in his long voyage back from Troyland 
to his native home, Ithaca, and his beloved Penelope, Odysseus 
had been blown by vagrant winds afar, until he touched the 
unknown shores of the island of the lotus eaters—those strange 
people who ate the flower of the lotus plant—its sweet fruit 
causing them to forget the past and that there was a future; 
so in the present, for which alone they lived, they forgot all 
duty and all sadness. Each day long they would sit and dream 
and dream in happy dreams which never ended. A few of 
Odysseus’ men ventured forth, and, having eaten of the fruit, 
forgot everything save the happy present, and Odysseus, fear¬ 
ful of the results and that his followers would lose all desire 
to return to their beloved Ithaca, seized and bound the victims 
and, hurrying them to the boats, departed in haste and thus 
saved his future from a nirvana of inaction. Were the lotus 
flowers of religion, wealth and respectability the sweetened 
fruits of allurement from which the spirit of Odysseus would 
strive to save him and would some journey on some Damascan 
road rouse him from his somnolence and turn his face toward 
a newer light of progress and development ? Ah, those heroic 
Greeks! 

He never thought of the old schoolday legends but that a 
thrill of delight in the recollection of what lives of activity and 
accomplishment were in the world in the days of the golden 
age of Pericles and others possessed of the same keen desire 

[28] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


to know things and to extract beauty out of the surrounding 
darkness and make it the real symbol of life to man. Did all 
this education of the Greeks come suddenly out of nowhere? 
Was it a week’s creation like that of the Hebrews, in which a 
god brought everything out of nothing for the edification of a 
man and a woman who lived in a beautiful garden in a life of 
idle luxury? Stop! Such thoughts were blasphemous—but 
his mind was fastened for the moment upon them—it must be 
some besetment of the devil, for he had not thought of these 
things before in just this way. At any rate, the possibility held 
out that there could have been so much of the love of the won- 
drously beautiful in life that attracted the genius of a people 
who seemed able to express it, showed that God after all was 
the Creator of it, and if he did not bestow these particular 
qualifications on his chosen people, the Jews, it was because 
unto them was given the far greater responsibility of being the 
progenitors of the only true religion which should conquer the 
world, and finally give to it the Christ who was to beautifully 
die that all the sins of every one who might believe could be 
atoned for. That was not the mission of the Greeks—they 
were simply a secondary people to whom God might have given 
special visions of divine lines of the human form, in order 
that as the world developed, His handiwork might be found 
expressed in a more comprehensive way than simply through 
the greater and more important unfolding of a system of 
salvation. 

The inner nature of Ernest was attuned to a love of 
artistic expression—there were two things in his life which were 
whispering to him now every day. One of them came from his 
visit to the Centennial Exposition at Philadelphia, to which he 
had gone on his vacation after graduating from the High School 
in 1876, and which now, after a lapse of two or three years, 
remained as a trenchant memory. Not that everything inter¬ 
ested him at that great getting-together of all the best things 
which the world could select to represent the productions of 
particular countries, but the Art Building had been the especial 
place of his attention. Somehow the love of these great pic¬ 
tures drew out of his nature more than the ponderous machines 
and other devices of the industrial world that bespoke for the 
convenience and prosperity of the people. He loved to pause 

[29] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


before some wondrously soft and colorful landscape, or some 
Dutch genre painting, or a fascinating portrait of Gains¬ 
borough or Reynolds, and say to himself: “Here am I!” 
Standing at this masterpiece, before which the great artist him¬ 
self stood so many times, while he was translating his genius 
from his inner self to the canvas to satisfy the artistic hunger 
of a multitude of all nations for unknown centuries. Great 
art is undying; its significance permeating the entire cultural 
world, and in a way of enduring freshness, it ever speaks its 
message of lasting joys to the many to whom life unfolds itself 
through the eye that Beauty trained in its behest, and would 
ever fascinate the seeker after the attributes of greatness of 
soul that were the results of the artist’s vision. He had seen 
the remarkable canvases of the Russian Verestchagin which 
had been exhibited in Chicago, and these great realisms had 
given him a thrill which he had never before experienced. 
Indeed, his interest in the work of sculpture and painting 
which was only feebly awakened by the little knowledge he 
acquired of them in his schooldays, had been greatly aroused 
when he realized the sense of power in interpreting the terrible 
things of life, as well as those of beauty which rested in the 
man or woman blest with the translating ability which is the 
possession of such an enviable few. 

It was only by such experiences as this at these exhibitions 
that he felt his dissatisfaction in his own poverty of expres¬ 
sion. O, the hunger of a desire to create, and to find an utter 
inability of accomplishment. He enumerated his desires— 
painting, poetry, music, oratorical ability—all these, and more, 
and as yet no realization. The giant despair thrust his ugly 
head within his range of vision, and all he could do was to cry 
in his hopelessness and give vent to his emotions through his 
religious devotion. The other thing, besides this love of paint¬ 
ing, which was whispering to him everlastingly, was his love of 
music. To be sure, there was a great satisfying of hunger in 
the wondrous organ and great choir of his church, but through 
the companionship of Alice Gardner, a young woman who 
seemed to him to be the personification of all that was good, 
inspiring and beautiful in life, and who first opened the doors 
of the romantic to him, he was permitted to enter into hitherto 

[30] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


unknown realms in the chambers of the inner soul of the 
enchanted castle of his dreams. 

Alice at first was a coy, indefinite sort of a sprite who 
flitted before his unanswering eyes on different occasions, and 
upon whom he had fixed no especial attention until one evening 
at a concert she had unfolded the gorgeous colorings of Chopin 
in his Lento Sostenuto, Beethoven in his Moonlight Sonata, 
and then with Liszt’s Liebestraum there came to him a sense 
of consciousness that here was an uncultivated garden over 
whose fence he had just glanced as he passed by and had not 
realized its possibilities for him. His taste for good music had 
been whetted by attendarce at noon organ recitals in Hershey 
Hall given by the great artist, Clarence Eddy; and, too, by the 
Theodore Thomas Concerts in the Exposition Building on the 
lake front, and once he had carried his enthusiasm to the 
extreme by journeying to Cincinnati to attend the Spring Saen- 
gerfest, as well as to be a regular member of the Bach and 
Handel Society for the singing of Judas Maccabeus, and other 
oratories, led by Herr Fuchs with much disgust at the small 
knowledge these amateur Americans had of musical technic. 

Well, anyway, he was acquiring some of the possibilities 
of the connoisseur, and when the vision of the fair Alice 
stopped in front of him, as if to say: “Well, Mr. Ernest, come 
and catch me, if you can,” he made up his mind to try his 
untutored hand at the combination of love and music, and it 
eventually won, but the cost was so excessive in nervous expen¬ 
diture, causing events to happen which undeniably changed the 
whole course of his life. Why hadn’t he thought about feminine 
attractions before? Here he was, eighteen years of age, and 
had passed them all by like a lot of other things in life, unob¬ 
servant and unreflective as to the purposes for which they 
existed. Would his brain ever respond to the natural law of 
evolution so that he could keep abreast of the times and feel 
that he was a part of the advance guard making for progress 
in the world, or would he simply be one of the great masses of 
people who track through life, unobservant and unresponsive 
to the call of an inner self of nature, to receive the gift of 
growing horizons of mentality of which he would become an 
interested part? He remembered lines of an old poem he had 
read, reciting the death on the cross that the vision of salva- 

£31 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


tion might live: “An army of dead souls there is, that walks— 
with eyes that see not, with wills that dare not, ever treading 
the beaten pathway that leads away from the sea.” That sea 
was the great wide world full of a myriad of wonderful things, 
in the midst of which he existed; and how little, after all, he 
knew definitely about anything. 

He loved a lot of things, but was master of nothing—not 
even of himself—was not sure of any particular object in life, 
and fell in with his environment without any especial examina¬ 
tion as to whether it fitted him, or not. He at least felt, now 
with both music and Alice in his life, that he must take account 
of himself, and come to some resolution for the future. He 
was probably, for one thing, through with his school life; no 
thoughts had come to him about a higher education at univer¬ 
sity or college. In fact, the idea that he needed this added 
culture seemed so remote as never to have caused any discus¬ 
sion. His emotional nature had been entirely taken care of in 
his religious experiences, and the smattering of other things he 
got through music, books and pictures did not awaken in him 
any longing for a serious expenditure of time with them. It 
seems to be an accepted fact with most young Americans that 
they are not susceptible of intense application in anything out 
of the ordinary. They are attracted by the things in life which 
run along smoothly on the surface, and give promise of easily 
attained comforts and pleasures. 

Alice, however, was not of this kind. Her foundation was 
laid on fundamentals; she excelled in her lessons at school— 
absorbed easily, kept up with the best in everything, and made 
such progress in her musical education as to command the 
admiring attention of critical judges wherever she appeared 
on the programs. Her teacher—Seeboeck—was a feature in 
the development of a love for Chopin in Chicago, and spent 
many of his hours of dreams at the piano, pouring out his soul 
with the master’s music and wrecking his sensitive nervous 
system with a constant smoking of cigarettes. He was an 
inspiration as a teacher, however, and his delicate hands with 
their long, tapering fingers, and his really spiritual—if one may 
call it so—face lent the atmosphere of a sensitive and high- 
strung genius which placed a pupil, or a listener, in a respon¬ 
sive attitude at once The energy and enthusiasm of a pupil 

[ 32 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 

would be doubly great in his presence, and his almost timid 
nature seemed to appeal, in a poetic sense, as the soul of an 
artist belonging to some world entirely foreign to the one in 
which he found himself forced to earn his daily subsistence. 
Alice was practical and of no uncertain mind as to what she 
was ambitious to accomplish with her music, and as she found 
her hunger fed by her constant contact with such a teacher, 
she grew more and more absorbed in the refinement of her life 
as it came to her through a knowledge of the visions of the 
great masters of this art. Ernest saw all this, and it served 
to determine him, more and more, to cultivate such a rare 
acquaintance. Most of the girls with whom he came in contact 
at school and at church were a carefree, irresponsible lot whose 
minds were not at all touched by the problems or difficulties 
in life which led to serious and substantial conversation or 
acquirements. He felt the need of some compelling force out¬ 
side of himself to pull him together and establish some sort of 
a program to go by. 

In the church there seemed to be growing a conflict of 
thought between two ideas in which the members began to take 
sides. The pastor was an ardent enthusiast who made no 
compromise in his belief in the truths as he saw them, and, 
being very friendly to the revival spirit of the times, caught 
the gestures and methods of Moody and Sankey, bringing what 
many considered sensational features into the work of increas¬ 
ing the membership of the church. The congregation was an 
eminently respectable and wealthy one, and many resented the 
doctrines and methods of the evangelists, particularly the doc¬ 
trine of the immediate second coming of Christ, which was 
being continuously preached from the pulpit, much to the irri¬ 
tation of an influential portion of the congregation. The situa¬ 
tion became aggravated at its climax, when, after an especially 
urgent sermon on the subject one Sunday morning, several who 
had been pastors themselves in their active days arose in their 
pews and protested against the doctrine and created an unusu¬ 
ally earnest disputation with the pastor. This situation was 
never fully forgotten, and one of the younger leaders, a man 
who possessed both culture and a disposition to progress 
toward what was known as liberal Christianity in those days 
of David Swing and Hiram W. Thomas, a bible class leader 

[ 33 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


and teacher of a class in which Alice was a member, not only 
became alienated from the pastor on the subject of the second 
coming, but advanced theories on the divinity itself which 
brought about a serious situation, threatening to disrupt the 
heretofore harmonious and prosperous organization. 

The pastor, however, held the friendship and sympathy of 
the larger part of the membership and succeeded in forcing the 
issue to the retirement of a number of the discontented ones, 
and soon the establishment of revivals in the church made up 
and many more the loss it had sustained in this controversy. 

Ernest became, through the revivals, more than ever inter¬ 
ested in his religious life, and for a time suffered all distrac¬ 
tions to be put aside that he might indulge his emotional nature 
entirely in the thrill of religious devotion which the moods of 
revivalism had created. Here he was now between two fires, 
and was continually finding himself so to be because of the lack 
of a vitally independent will. He was blown hot and cold 
alternately on the sea of one thing and another which appealed 
to him through the newest influence which he happened to 
experience. He never became grouchy in any way, but the pull 
was on his highly strung nerves—there seemed to be the neces¬ 
sity for an intense living because of the fires of activity that 
never ceased to bum within him. Restless, nervous energy 
must find a vent. Had the vent been well ordered and in a 
definite direction, the result would have been one of accom¬ 
plishment ; but conflicting emotions, running in opposite direc¬ 
tions, could get him nowhere, and he was unable to promote a 
policy which would anchor him in some well set harbor. So 
as the weeks went by, in these plastic years, Sundays, Mondays, 
Wednesdays and Fridays were deeply emotional religiously, 
and Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays reflected the emotion 
of the arts in their rather positive reaction to the other. It 
is not difficult to prophecy where a personality, under these 
opposing importunities will land, and in course of two years or 
so he became a physical derelict afloat on an uncertain sea— 
looking for some master hand to re-direct him on the voyage 
of life that he might reach a port of finality and there find an 
established peace for which he was beginning to long. These 
were the bright days of the Bostonians, an opera company 
whose principals were Clara Louise Kellogg, Annie Louise 

[ 34 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


Cary, Tom Karl and Myron W. Whitney, and their renditions 
of the Italian operas with the melodious music of their love 
fascinations reached deep down into the hearts of the young 
musical world of Chicago. They sang in a Tabernacle built 
for the revivals of Moody and Sankey in Monroe street, near 
Franklin. 

To these concerts and operas Ernest and Alice went in 
great glee, and absorbed in their susceptible young natures such 
a wonderful song of romance as “I dreamt that I dwelt in 
marble halls,” and Tom Karl’s sweet lyric voice thrilled every 
one in his rendition of “Then You’ll Remember Me.” How 
they nestled close to one another as the ecstasy of the tones 
floated through the great audience which was spellbound by 
this remarkably clear and fine high tenor voice. And then 
again when Theodore Thomas commenced to establish the 
great symphony orchestra which has become his monument, the 
Eroica Symphony of Beethoven, Der Freischutz of von Weber 
and the William Tell Overture commanded their distinct 
admiration. They became regulars at these affairs, and greatly 
strengthened their mutual admiration and friendship for each 
other through them. At such times Ernest saw life from a 
distinctly different point of vision of that of perhaps the night 
before, when he had been a devout attendant at some religious 
service and taken an active part, with the result of such a 
stirring of enthusiasm that he would have given his future as 
a missionary to the heathen, if he had been asked to do so at 
that psychological moment. 

As it was, he became so thoroughly imbued with the spirit 
of Christianity that he gave away all the money received as 
salary in the position he occupied as assistant in his father’s 
office. Payday was disbursing day with him, and many an 
habitual “drunk” who was promising to reform and lead the 
straight and narrow life was the recipient of money from 
Ernest which undoubtedly gave him the drink and dope which 
he craved in reality. This all came about through an organiza¬ 
tion of the young men in the church who called themselves 
“Daniel’s Band,” and under the inspiration of a song which 
some one had written for them, the chorus of which was: 

[ 35 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


“Dare to be a Daniel, 

Dare to stand alone; 

Dare to have a purpose firm— 

Dare to make it known.” 

They would go out on the streets Sunday evenings before 
the service and distribute circulars in the saloons, with which 
the neighborhood was well blessed, and gather a motley crowd 
of the unwashed who professed a desire to “be saved.” Of 
course they were well taken care of, and a lot of them became 
earnest adherents of an institution which gave them things for 
which they were not required to return any vast amount of 
labor. Ernest was gratified to find such quick and easy results. 
When he told Alice about this the next day, she would look 
at him a little cynically and give him a smile of compassion, as 
though to say: “You booby, you’ve a great heart, but you are 
as yet somewhat unsophisticated.” Somehow her practical 
turn of mind always gave him a dash of cold water in his 
efforts to help redeem the world for Christ. 

Another thing on which he doted, which was not half bad, 
in her estimation, was to go quite often with a number of 
others to conduct a religious and song service at one of the 
public infirmaries not far from the church. There was a large 
number of “shut-ins” there who expressed much thankfulness 
for these evenings of consolation. Of course it was a quiet 
innovation in their lives of monotony and, regardless of the 
value of the religious influence, existed the fact that here was 
a point of contact with the outside world which was a source 
of momentary happiness to them in the relief from their daily 
discomforts of body and mind. 

Alice saw that this kind of a life was reacting on Ernest 
and growing periods of moroseness and melancholy were likely 
to bring about a breakdown sooner or later unless his mental 
environment could be changed. Such intense religious expe¬ 
riences were not wholesome for a young and active disposition 
unless they interspersed with those of a somewhat opposite 
character; and after one of these infirmary meetings, noticing 
his faraway expression of face and conversation, she said: 
“Ernest, I am the only friend you have who knows what is 
good for you. Your mind was not made to run on a single 

[ 36 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


track—you must have a diversity of interests to make life 
wholesome. Here you are with a lively imagination, capable 
of a broad development in things which are worth while, and 
limiting yourself almost entirely to but one expression. You 
cannot subsist on this—you need a conflict of emotions in your 
nature, where ideas will arise that strike fire and make opposi¬ 
tion. In this way your intellect will interest itself in different 
viewpoints and lose the monotony of only one which is wholly 
absorbing; this latter is not good for anyone, especially for a 
young man like you with his life before him to choose from. 
You must take heed of what I say. You can do your part in 
the church, but don’t become a monk and sacrifice every gift 
you have for an uncertain reward. Examine yourself, and find 
out what your real motive is in what you are doing. Perhaps 
you labor under some illusion which you would be glad to 
throw away if something more satisfying came across your 
horizon. 

“Now, what I want you to do is this: I am a member of 
a club of artists composed of young men and young women 
who are engaged either as professionals or amateurs, in music, 
painting and sculpture, writing plays, poetry or other literary 
work, who enjoy meeting together for ‘eats/ then a program 
and conversation, once in two weeks. While you have no 
accomplishment in any of these latter lines, because you have 
deliberately neglected them for the one thing which is seeking 
to monopolize your life, still I am entitled to an escort, and you 
may go with me and get a glimpse of some things about which 
you know very little. I have helped you to a knowledge of 
music, which you confess you now have an interest in which 
you never had before, and your love of painting, which you 
have expressed to me, can be made more of a reality if you 
become acquainted with some of the artists themselves. There 
is a movement here now to establish an Art Institute in Chi¬ 
cago, and unless you take advantage of some opportunity like 
this you will never have the interest in it which you should 
have when the exhibits take place. You will thank me some 
day, after your eyes are opened, for insisting that you com¬ 
mence a course of re-valuation.” 

Ernest could not at first comprehend the import of all this 
that Alice was saying—it seemed something like trying to take 

[ 37 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


him away from all that was sacred and holy to bring him into 
some association which would weaken his loyalty to the faith. 
However, he was grasping unknowingly at straws which came 
across his path, and as the suggestion sank a little deeper he 
made up his mind he would try it once anyway, and see what 
another part of the world looked like. 

These meetings were held in an Italian restaurant in South 
Halsted street, in a neighborhood entirely foreign and made up 
of a mongrel mixture of nearly all the southern peoples of 
Europe. Here the expression of life was a brilliant explosion 
of ejaculative ideas, and the gestures of hand and the shrugging 
of shoulders helped actively to convey the flooding thoughts of 
the mind. Conversation on music, art and poetry flowed as 
freely here as religion did in his environment. Of course they 
had religion, too, but it was a sort of fantastic kind which 
encumbered itself over muchly with bells and processions, 
wherein the priests were the active intermediaries with God 
and the spectators passive adherents only, with their flickering 
tapers and bending knees. This was all a new use of imagina¬ 
tion to him—so different from the Puritan sternness of the 
New England ancestry. Why didn’t Alice feel that way also? 
She was of New England descent. And then it glimmered 
through his mind that music and art were greater emotions 
to express through one’s senses than a puritanical religion. 
Well, what an idea! Was it born of the devil—that such a 
thought should come to him? 

He was in doubt, but with it there was an allurement also. 
As they passed down the street on the first evening Ernest was 
to attend the club, they saw a long, glimmering procession in 
the distance gradually coming nearer as they walked. They 
noticed, too, that in every window of the neighborhood were 
set lighted candles which made them sensitive to the light of a 
thousand yellow stars which twinkled at them as they walked 
along. Crowds commenced to gather in the street, as if expect¬ 
ing some kind of a demonstration near at hand. Finally a 
flood of light appeared at a doorway and they passed on the 
opposite side of the street and looked within. Other persons 
had loitered for the same purpose, and from the remarks made 
they soon knew it was the Good Friday night of the Greeks, 
and the procession of candles was in the order of things. 

[ 38 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


Within the church could be seen the priests and choir in pic¬ 
turesque regalia, ministering the service which was attended 
by all that could possibly jam into the building—men, women 
and children, each holding a burning candle as token of their 
part in the remembrance of the crucified Son of God, the 
anniversary of whose tragedy they were celebrating. 

Then at the end, the priests leading with the uplifted 
crucifix and each holding aloft his flame of light, the proces¬ 
sion left the church and, joined by other hundreds in the street, 
marched solemnly and with great religiosity through the neigh¬ 
borhood where the candle-lighted windows greeted them in 
kind. “Lesson number one, Ernest,” said Alice. “Can you be 
sensitive to all this and not feel an artist’s thrill at the sublimity 
of the picture which was there presented ?” 

Afterwards, in the restaurant, one of the hopeless—to 
him—young men who had also seen the picture and had it 
engraved on his soul, read a little poem which he had written 
on the spot, the last stanza of which was: 

“And from church to street—out into the starful night 
Of first Spring’s delight 
We coursed our way. 

The thousand glimmering candles in windows bright 
Yield obeisant light 
In darkness turned to day . 

My heart was yearning for the golden age of old 
When Greece to waiting world 
Its wondrous story told ; 

And in my tears I saw the light — 

Not flickering in the candles bright 

But in my heart—a flame of golden love unfold.” 

At the close of this reading there was a silence which 
betokened a stress of emotion on the part of all present—the 
whole situation undoubtedly meant little to them religiously— 
it certainly did not affect Ernest in that way, because it was 
not his way of expressing religion. But as an art expression 
it was superb, and therein lay their solemn enthusiasm. The 
whole evening was not at all like the usual fabric of stuff of 
which they were the weavers, but it had its deep purpose of 
entering into their lives and lending a serious touch where 

[ 39 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


they too often were lighthearted and given to a large measure 
of hilarity, caused somewhat by the amount of Chianti con¬ 
sumed. Cigarettes, of course, were in evidence amongst both 
men and women, although that was a habit to which Alice was 
not educated, and probably because of the inner voice of Puri¬ 
tan ancestry which held her in restraint. 

Of course Ernest was aghast—as though he was in the 
midst of a band of brigands, or pirates. One acquaintance 
only he made at his first entry into bohemian art life; this was 
of a young Polish sculptor named Stanley Pilsudski, who had 
recently arrived from the Continent and expressed himself in 
very limited English. He was a delightfully clean and unso¬ 
phisticated young fellow, about Ernest’s age, and had such 
honest and earnest blue eyes that one was unconsciously drawn 
to him. Besides his chosen work as a sculptor he was thor¬ 
oughly immersed in a love for good music and had the usual 
reverence of his countrymen for Chopin, but also the growing 
reputation of Richard Wagner had claimed his attention, and 
it was only just before his departure for America that rumors 
were spreading of the important work Wagner was undertak¬ 
ing in connection with the story of the Holy Grail in an ambi¬ 
tious opera to be known as Parsifal. Unfortunately, Stanley’s 
broken English made it difficult for him to impart to the mem¬ 
bers of the club, in a lucid way, all of his sentiments and 
emotions which the early parts of this great work had awak¬ 
ened in him. Ernest was at once interested because he knew 
in a hazy sort of a way something about the Holy Grail legends, 
which had their origin in great antiquity, but were brought 
more definitely into the literary world late in the twelfth cen¬ 
tury, and were the foundation of much of the imaginative 
creations of poets and musicians of the succeeding centuries, 
and which placed such a halo about Good Friday and Easter. 

The celebration of Christmas was done in the spirit of the 
generally accepted plainness of fact in which all the attendant 
events showed forth clearly to weave the beautiful fabric like 
the luminous altar piece of a great artist, but Good Friday and 
Easter were misty dream things half hidden from the mind’s 
eye in the suggestive lore of monks and poets of the darkened 
ages before the art of printing set the world into clearer visions. 
This shadowy mysticism appealed to the religious nature of 

[ 40 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


Ernest, and as the young Polish sculptor stood there before the 
club, telling the story and romance of the Holy Grail, the thrill 
of another phase of spirituality shook the comprehension of 
Ernest as the Greek procession had already done in the earlier 
evening, and he glanced at Alice as if to hear her say: “Yes, 
Ernest, this is lesson number two; I have still greater hopes 
for you.” 

Well, this was the music that spring brought to his soul 
in the year of his Lord, 1878, and he found himself now bur¬ 
dened with mental throes that he could not shake off because 
he was not able to gainsay the new influences which were 
leavening his life. 

Spring passed rapidly into hot summer, and with the 
summer the news from Alice that she was about to visit her 
grandmother in Massachusetts and make a long stay—until 
late in the fall. A beautifully tranquil place amongst the Berk- 
shires where she could get herself together for the duties and 
studies of the following winter. This was very disconcerting 
news to Ernest, and he felt helplessly weak and solemn in the 
contemplation of such a prospect. She was the only one who 
had ever stimulated him out of the net of a commonplace 
existence so that he commenced to look at the things of life 
with a broader view, and now he must carry on by himself. 
There was no help for it, however, and he felt desolate enough 
to believe that, as soon as she was out of his sight, he would 
at once fall back to his old associations. He wanted to do one 
thing, however, and to this she consented: that he was to go 
with her on the train for a few hours, and then leave at some 
station where he could catch a returning train and not lose any 
time from his duties. This he could do, as her departure was 
set for five o’clock in the afternoon, and this would give him 
three or four hours with her, and he was sure of a lot of stimu¬ 
lation in that time and under such circumstances. 

Through the intelligent supervision of the progressive 
leader in the church, who has been heretofore mentioned as her 
teacher, and one whose religious beliefs were changing with 
the liberalism of the day, she had planned to do a lot of serious 
reading in the quiet of the summer days at her grandmother’s. 
Such modern writers as George Eliot and George Henry Lewes 
amongst the English, Ralph Waldo Emerson of her own coun- 

[41] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


try, and the earlier writing of Friedrich Nietzsche, a German 
philosopher coming into fame, were amongst those on her list. 
In fact, on the train she had elected to re-read the story of 
Silas Marner, which had charmed her earlier in the year. The 
lofty moral tone of all of the stories of George Eliot which she 
had seen appealed to her, as well as the exquisite touches of 
the genre of simple-minded country folk that were usually 
depicted. 

The train started with Ernest in a solemn, downhearted 
frame of mind, and she determined to inject the virus of 
optimism if she could by relating to him in as few words as 
possible the story of old Silas. Slowly and painfully in the 
stress of labor and of years, he had acquired one by one the 
golden guineas which he kept in a bag hidden under the 
loosened tile of the floor of the lonesome cottage in which he 
lived a bachelor life and had spun his livelihood for many 
years. Then after age had come upon him, a thief had stolen 
in and found the gold, escaping with it out into the darkness of 
the night. Weeks and months of misery followed for old Silas, 
deprived of his daily sight of the gleaming gold, living without 
friends or visitors and dreaming by day and by night of the 
lost wealth. How, then, one stormy winter night, with a glow¬ 
ing fire on his hearth and an open door perchance to let the 
gold roll back again, a little child, lost to its mother wandering 
in the forest, attracted by the light and warmth, toddled in and 
sat entranced before the mellow fire—then soon lost in sleep, 
to rest and to wake again. Old Silas looked as if to see his 
gold come back, but soon with wondering eyes there looked at 
him the smiling face with streaming curls of gold instead. 

The awakened child saw in him no offense, but cried to 
him in joyous fellowship, and in the cry and smile was lost to 
Silas the sadness of the years. “This means for you, Ernest, 
that you can keep your gold which you are hugging with such 
miserly care, as if in fear that some one will take it away from 
you. Redemption came to old Silas when the years were nearly 
told for him; but with you it is different. You are on the 
threshold of your best years—you have the gold in the posses¬ 
sion of your faith in Jesus Christ. Don’t give it up, and be 
sure that if in the development of the years this faith takes 
upon itself new phases because you face greater experiences, 

[42] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


that the old imperishable gold still remains. Your religion will 
always be your better self if you allow it to grow with the 
growing thought in your mind. If you stifle it in the same 
old mold it will lose its freshness and virility and you will find 
its usefulness and inspiration gone. Keep it endowed with the 
spirit of the times, and you will marvel at the constancy of its 
faithfulness in ministering to your daily wants. I trust you 
now, Ernest, to go back to the fight and make the most of it. 
Goodnight, and write to me soon, for I shall be anxious to 
know what you are doing with your time. In the fall we 
will see more of our artist friends, and you can renew your 
acquaintance with Stanley, for I am sure there is much in 
common to you both.” 

* * * * 

The summer and fall for Ernest saw much that was diffi¬ 
cult and disappointing in life. The heat of a protracted season, 
an unusual amount of hard work and responsibility brought 
about by the wrongdoing of another whose position he was 
called upon to fill in addition to his own, made threatening 
inroads upon his physical strength, and as the end of the year 
approached he was faced with a serious breakdown unless 
prompt and vigorous relief was afforded. 

During the holidays one of the neighbors called at his 
home to say that his wife, Mrs. Borland, had been very much 
benefited by the climate of San Antonio, Texas, and would 
remain there for several months, and if Ernest could be pre¬ 
vailed upon to go there he was sure a rest of several weeks 
would restore him completely. This was a straw which he was 
glad to grasp, and before he could realize it he was on a train 
bound for New Orleans and thence to San Antonio, where the 
bleak winds of the Canadian Rockies which beat down merci¬ 
lessly at home gave way at once to the whispers of the early 
spring of the Southland. 


[43] 


CHAPTER III 


Franciscan Missions 

New Orleans, 

January 20th, 1879. 

Dear Alice: 

You should see me now in my profound luxury, an inmate 
for a few days in the old French Quarter of New Orleans. I 
can scarcely realize that I am the same Ernest—living in the 
same world. A few days since I was in Chicago, surrounded 
by the icy spectacle of winter—today I am a thousand miles 
away to the South and, presto! all about me are evidences of 
the handiwork of some sun god, who breathes forth the deli¬ 
cious breath of fragrance through a myriad of blossoms on 
climbing vines to fill the air with its sensuousness, and fill the 
eyes with their transporting beauty. This seems all the more 
vivid in contrast with the frozen North of a few hours ago. I 
feel better and stronger already for the higher temperature. It 
is an invigorating change, but the setting of my old Spanish 
Court in St. Peter street fills my mind with a reaction to many 
of the lighter things in life which I have never known much 
about. Can it be there is in this suggestion a hint of a certain 
degree of relaxation and languor that would make a pleasant 
opposition to all of my former experiences in the realm of 
puritanism ? 

It is remarkable what differences climate will create in 
men’s minds as to the valuation of life and its purposes. I 
already feel a don’t-careness, or a free-careness, I cannot deter¬ 
mine which, in the short time I have been possessed by the 
sensation and am willing, almost, to believe that the great world 
will continue to revolve on its axis, and swing in its orbit, 
entirely oblivious of the fact that there is such a person as 
Ernest Wilmerding, and what he thinks and does is a matter of 
small importance in the eternal scheme of things. 

The fact is the impression flashes across me as I sit here 
in the warm tenderness of this soft southern air, that I am 

[44] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


about to commence my education in an entirely unforseen 
way, of course giving you due credit for setting the machinery 
of my mind in action. I see visions now of earlier days in 
which the slant of life as it came back to the French and the 
Spanish was as distinct from that of the English in the early 
settlements of America as anything could possibly be; and yet 
all which they did was in the name of the same Christ whose 
religion all three nations were ardent in the promulgation of. 
The restraints of English puritanism find no welcome in the 
continental atmosphere of this city. I expect to find things 
different once more when I arrive in Texas, for there again 
I shall mingle with the Mexican influence which will bring with 
it the provincial flavoring of another people ingrained with the 
old spirit of Spain. I rejoice in these new experiences and 
expectations, for they show me now that I am willing to accede 
to things I would have repelled as a desecration only a year or 
more ago. 

Don’t smile now that I am speeding ahead so in the 
delineation of my mental horizons, but truly I feel the inspira¬ 
tion of youth on a high mountain where a lot of new and unex¬ 
plored kingdoms are brought, like a procession before my eyes 
to view them with hungry satisfaction. Here is my little patio 
with its brick paved court replete with the brilliance of tropical 
colorings, and with the bluest of blue skies overhanging. I 
have become intoxicated, momentarily, and am writing to you 
under an hallucination perhaps, from which I may have a 
decided reaction in the awakening. 

I will not tell you all now, m’amie, but will write again 
before I leave for Texas, so that you may know whether or 
not the illusion still lives. 

St. Peter St., 

Jany. 25, 1879. 

Dear Alice: 

The illusion still lives, but I have added to it many shades 
of color since I wrote you the last letter. Then it was arrayed 
in the warm dress of my blue sky patio which I thought consti¬ 
tuted illusion enough; but I had simply dipped around the 
edges of a great sea of romanticism which has since nearly 
submerged me. I have come out of it all, however, with my 
pulse strong, beating a more joyful note than it ever has before. 

[45] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


I believe now that the youth of twenty needs experiences which 
cannot be found in a limited garden of his own—although it 
may be a very beautiful one which grows under the guardian¬ 
ship of an unchangeable sky. He must travel widely to view 
other gardens under other unchangeable skies, for in this way 
only can he get the fulness of glimpse that makes for fulness 
of life. I now know I could carry this simile into all of the 
departments: race, religion, color, sex, etc. We must see them 
all to realize the value of each, and thus to lose our prejudices. 
My deepest dip with the spiritual, I think, has been attendance 
at a negro church Sunday evening. 

I was almost persuaded that I was a Christian when I left 
it for St. Peter street. It is strange that nothing ever happened 
to me like this in Chicago; again I must go to a strange garden 
to get my glimpse of the larger life. The echo of that remark¬ 
able utterance of song, “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for 
to carry me home,” sung in the earnest voices of people surely 
without hypocrisy and deadly aware of the presence of a con¬ 
veyance sweeping low in the sky to take them away, gave me 
a touch of nearness to the Christ spirit greater than I ever 
before experienced. There was that thrill which runs over and 
through one when undergoing some deep emotion: 

“/ looked over Jordan and what did I see, 

Coming for to carry me home, 

A hand of angels coming after me. 

Coming for to carry me home;” 

that nearness of real relationship of man with God—where the 
Father speaks face to face with his servant, which is typical of 
the unpretentious Christian. In such an atmosphere the ques¬ 
tion of race, color or sex does not enter—your neighbor with 
whom you touch elbows is your sympathizing brother in the 
Lord, no matter how he may differ with you in other respects. 
I don’t know how I can ever take the southern view which I 
shall be brought face to face with now and then again in Texas. 
I must think this out. I shall find many problems, I am sure, 
but am not willing to gloss them over with indifference. I find 
now that I must know from my own reasoning why things are 
so and so, and that geography has a great deal to do with them. 
I begin to wonder if I had been bom in China, or Turkey or 

[46] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


India would I recognize the truths of Christianity as the one 
and only religion; or if the beliefs of my environment would as 
easily satisfy? Problems like these are suggesting themselves 
to me, now that I see what a difference a thousand miles south 
has made between peoples. Is it the same an equal distance 
east, or west, or north ? I must get my bearings so I can value 
things. While I sit here amongst the palms of the patio a 
beautiful little bird of most exquisite plumage flies down on 
the banana tree and sings me a sweet song for a moment—then 
it is gone, around delivering its message of a great unconscious 
loveliness which I feel but cannot understand. I think my 
bodily malaise is largely the result of a monotonous mind that 
has not directed the eyes and the body into a more varied 
existence. 

I shall cross Canal street to the American quarter for a 
few hours, as I have been invited to dine with the Major 
Blakleys of St. Charles street, where I expect to have other 
revelations. They are the typical old southern aristocrats. 
You will be interested in what I shall write you in my final 
letter, which I will send just before taking the steamer for 
Galveston. I said this in my last letter, so you can realize that 
this place has charmed me to a longer stay than I anticipated. 

On the Gulf of Mexico, 
February 1st, 1879. 

Dear Alice: 

I find I am no sea animal or sea monster of any kind. 
Here I lie in my berth after a night’s ride on the Gulf with a 
heavy sea, and it has simply knocked me out entirely. As I 
lie here quietly I am comfortable, but if I attempt to assume 
an upright position the horrible sensations arrive again, and I 
am glad to get back. I have heard of people in Chicago who 
have never seen Lake Michigan, and while I cannot confess 
such stupidity, I must say I have never been on it. In fact, 
this is my first and only experience off terra firma, and I am 
making all sorts of vows that it shall be the last. However, it is 
comfortable to lie here now and write you this letter, and we 
shall soon be in the harbor at Galveston. 

I made some splendid friends in New Orleans, but it is 
awfully difficult to get their viewpoint on matters in general. 

[47] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


They don’t understand why I am a Republican in politics and 
seem to elbow along with the negro. I don’t dare to say very 
much about these things, and find it easier to flatter them with 
trite remarks about their romantic history—go into ecstasies 
over the creoles of Esplanade avenue—speak of the French 
district as a fauborg of Paris—compliment them on their Opera 
House and the fact that European opera has been given in 
their city almost continuously since 1820. Indeed they do have 
many things to be proud of. I don’t think I could acquire a lot 
of their prejudices—and I am sure observing theirs has made 
me mournfully aware of mine—but I shall take the cure and 
gradually eliminate them, you know. As I wrote you last, I 
dined by official invitation with Major Blakley and his family. 
One must cross Canal street to get from St. Peter street where 
I was, and the contrast between the two sections of the city is 
remarkable. I was French or Spanish on the one side, breath¬ 
ing the atmosphere of the early years of the eighteenth century 
as represented by narrow streets, old cathedrals, cabildos and 
convents of 1730, or thereabouts. Hispano-Moresque style of 
architecture, with red tiled roofs and exquisite iron-worked 
balconies mingled with the French, and I ate, drank and slept 
conscious of this heritage. But when I crossed Canal street I 
was an American of the late nineteenth century. Truly the 
climate was tropical, and the wonderfully beautiful gardens 
surrounding the comfortable residences, filled with palms, 
palmettos, fig, orange and magnolia trees and the riot of roses, 
violets and other flowers, made me feel Garden of Eden-ish, 
and aroused a natural yearning to be satisfied with such sur¬ 
roundings and not attempt to look further. Of course there 
is a high wall built about such places, and one must ring a bell 
at the door before entering from the street to the walk leading 
up to the house. This all seemed awfully strange to me, but I 
rather liked it, and when I thought this, too, is a custom 
imported not only from France and Spain, but England as 
well, where my puritanism came from, I felt a little more con¬ 
genial to it all. Then there was the old-fashioned knocker at 
the door, which New England also possesses, and after using 
this I felt considerably more at home. 

I was greeted by the finest expression of old southern hos¬ 
pitality, and the dinner certainly was the art of cooking per- 

[48] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


sonified. Of course I knew nothing about the mysteries of 
gumbo soup, and the delicately flavored sauces which went 
with the blue fish just out of the ocean with the shell oysters 
that morning; but when it came to the exquisite fruit pudding 
all immersed in the flames of the burning brandy which had 
been poured on it, I could not adequately express my admira¬ 
tion to the hostess for such a splendid repast. I presumed, 
however, this was not a dinner extraordinarily gotten up for 
me, but the every-night occasion of the family. 

I was somewhat nonplused as to what to talk about, and 
satisfied myself as well as I could with answering inquiries 
about different things in Chicago, and how I liked New 
Orleans. The family consisted only of the Major and his wife 
and a married daughter who lived with her parents. The 
Major earned his spurs in the “late unpleasantness,” and could 
not resist telling me what he thought of Gen. Benj. F. Butler, 
who commanded the Federal forces in possession of the city 
after it was captured by Admiral Farragut. I think myself he 
was somewhat arbitrary and high-handed in his methods, and 
left the sting of hate in the hearts of all New Orleans. It is 
pretty hard for the old genefation to reconcile their losses of 
prestige, property and slaves, and I think we would feel much 
the same if we had been trampled upon as they have been. I 
found the family to be prominent in the club and social circles 
of the city and owned a pew in the most exclusive of the 
Episcopal churches. You know what I mean by that word 
exclusive. I hate to use it in defining a Christian’s sect affilia¬ 
tion, but it would seem to convey to you better than in any 
other way what I am trying to tell you. If my stay could have 
been prolonged I would have been invited to several social 
functions, but I think best in my condition of mind and health 
to refrain and go on my way. 

This has been quite a letter for a seasick unfortunate to 
write, but when I got started my enthusiasm kept my pen in 
motion. y I will write again in a few days upon my arrival in 
San Antonio. 

San Antonio, 

February 5th, 1879. 

Dear Alice: 

Well, here I am, and settled for a few days at the Menger 
[49] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


Hotel in the heart of this America-Mexican city of twenty 
thousand souls. Again I find myself in a strange sort of an 
environment, and of course it is a small place compared with 
New Orleans. There is a lot of Mexican poverty here, and 
not a terrible amount of energy. It must be just the place for 
a nervous, run-down sort of a piece of humanity like myself, 
and if I can become a nonentity now for about six weeks and 
sleep myself into normality I shall feel pretty well repaid for 
the other deprivations. 

Judging from appearances, neither man nor nature are 
over-exerting themselves, but make a lackadaisical sort of an 
existence answer for all purposes. 

The ride from Galveston and Houston over here was an 
uneventful one, through an uninteresting country, and I was 
glad to arrive at my terminal and look for a resting place. 
This hotel is not far from the famous Alamo, which was the 
first of a number of Franciscan missions built in the early years 
of the eighteenth century. The Alamo became historically 
famous in 1836 as then the scene of the massacre of a small 
band of Texans, led by David Crockett, who defended it 
against four thousand Mexicans under the command of their 
most famous general, Santa Anna. Of course I was there 
early, looking for bullets and blood stains, like all curiosity 
hunters who haven’t a proper sense of perspective. I have also 
visited a beautiful little park called San Pedro, and sat there 
in the morning sunshine, which is so brilliant as to stimulate 
me wonderfully. I know now that this restful place will put 
me in an extraordinary physical condition and refresh and 
invigorate my mind so that my reconstruction period will begin 
at once. 

Last evening, just at sunset, the thrill of the vesper bells 
stirred me to the very depths, and I wandered over to the great 
cathedral of San Fernando to sit in the quiet of the growing 
dusk and spend a little time in contemplation. Every soul of 
emotion has the need of this absolute aloneness with itself 
occasionally, and I know of no way where the completeness 
of isolation can be had and surrounded by such an atmosphere 
of stimulation as in the shadowy recesses of just such a place 
within the walls of San Fernando. The flickering tapers bring 
forth the outlines of the gilded saints who stand in an abjuring 

[SO] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


attitude everywhere, while the pictures of the Sebastian-like 
martyrs of the ages bring one to a constant recollection of the 
price paid for an unrestrained devotion ot a cause. I wonder 
if I am made of the stuff of St. Sebastian, or St. Francis, or 
St. Anthony, from whom San Antonio derives its name. 

All those horrible arrows which have found their resting 
place in St. Sebastian’s flesh make me feel a very humble 
follower of the faith. I am beginning to enumerate the virtues 
which have made these men entitled to a niche prominent in 
every cathedral of the world. I must say that nearly all of the 
requirements that made their lives gloriously worth while seem 
to have passed away, and in this nineteenth century really a 
martyr would be an unappreciated curiosity. However, there 
must be martyrdom of some kind even now, and I propose to 
find out of what it consists. We sing in a very dreary sort of 
a way about the supposition that it is undesirable to be carried 
to mansions in the skies on flowery beds of ease, but I am 
becoming interested to form in my own mind some conclusions 
as to just how willing, and just how far, Christians will go to 
earn their saintships. Around me now, in this great cathedral, 
are simplicity and barrenness of poverty, as exemplified by the 
life of St. Francis, and, too, the people I meet here are low- 
typed, ignorant Mexicans or simple minded Americans who 
have no qualifications of education or enlightenment. What is 
the process by which man, woman or child comes and goes here 
every day ? There is only the procession of habit. There may 
possibly be the momentary sensibility of a suffering Jesus, but 
what he was suffering for, or the basic idea of that suffering, 
or of St. Sebastian’s suffering, is and always has been an 
unsolved enigma. There is somewhere in the density of their 
mentality a somewhat indistinct figure of a devil with horns 
and a pitchfork, ready to toss them into a great white-hot lake 
which burns forever, and what saves them from this eternal 
fate is the mechanical process of entering this temple each day 
and going through with certain simple forms of kneeling and 
crossing, together with the parting from divers small coins that 
keep this horrible creature busy with somebody else. I am 
trying just now to discriminate between all this and what I 
have been taught to believe myself—is there so much real dif¬ 
ference, or is it a different degree of picturesqueness in the 

[51] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


way in which it is presented? You have got me to thinking, 
Alice, and there will be no rest now until I get my feet on some 
kind of a foundation. 

Tomorrow I am to call on Mrs. Borland, our. Chicago 
neighbor, who is getting so much benefit from this climate. 

* * * * 

The address given Ernest by which he was to find his 
Chicago friend was at the home of the postmistress, Mrs. Mary 
Jarvis, and it was not difficult for him to go to the post office 
itself, as it was in the Alamo Plaza, not far from the Menger 
Hotel, to perhaps meet Mrs. Jarvis and from her get the proper 
directions. 

The next morning was one of those gloriously brilliant 
Texas springtide mornings with which the month of February 
is replete. To walk was an exhilaration, and Ernest now felt 
that to a large measure the lassitude of the last few months had 
commenced to loosen its hold on him. He whistled and sang, 
and spoke to all the birds and dogs he came near to, totally 
oblivious of the fact that he was supposed to be a mortal of 
tender flesh and lacking in several million red blood corpuscles; 
but he soon forgot his bodily malaise in the keen interest he 
took in all the strange and uncommon things which he saw on 
every hand, for he certainly was amongst a mongrel popula¬ 
tion. Numerous were the sombreroed Mexicans selling their 
little statues of colored clay saints, or their hot Spanish cooked 
preparations like chili con carne and hot tamales—eatables 
which were invented in the place where cayenne pepper grew. 
Ernest’s digestion was too timid for these delicacies, but he 
could not resist the gorgeous little colored clay saints, and he 
at once became the possessor of one, not knowing whether it 
correctly represented any of them or not, but he inclined to 
St. Anthony as being the patron saint of San Antonio. He 
wished to get into this saint atmosphere as much as possible 
because he was determined to solve all the mysteries of religion 
now that he had leisure, and this seemed to be the place where 
the saints excelled in their particular manifestations. He even 
got so bold, as he walked along, as to believe that he would 
try to make the acquaintance of some Mexican priest in order 
to get his side of the story, and in that way he could more 

[52] 


ERNEST WILMEEDING 


fairly judge the great subject and be enabled to make up his 
mind, what details to accept and what to reject. 

By this time he was suddenly brought to the consciousness 
that a sign in large English letters was staring him in the face, 
and gradually there appeared before his eyes the perfectly 
understandable words: “Post Office.” He entered at once 
with a brisk, businesslike air, inquiring for Mrs. Jarvis, and 
was referred by the clerk to a comfortable, middle-aged, full- 
weighted woman who smiled benignly at him from behind her 
spectacles. 

“You don’t have to tell me who you are or where you 
come from. I know from Mrs. Borland’s description that your 
name is Ernest and you have just arrived from Chicago. She 
said you would be a thin, hungry, nervous-appearing young 
fellow who needed a good filling up and something to occupy 
his mind besides religion. Religion is all right if you take it 
like castor oil: at certain times and in well-regulated doses, and 
I think the trouble with all the pale-faced saints is that they 
don’t know when to stop taking it. I get along pretty well in 
the world because I allow to get my fill on Sunday, and let 
it last me the rest of the week. The minister and I don’t 
always agree about these things, but we get along pretty well 
together because different people see things differently, you 
know, and we can’t expect every one to be just like us; ’least 
that’s the way I think, and nobody can make me see it any other 
way. My father used to say, says he: ‘Mary, you will come 
to some bad end for your having such a hard head and being 
so contrary about important things—better use a little common 
sense.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘that’s just about what I’m doing—think¬ 
ing for myself,’ and I can’t say after all these years but what 
that was the best thing for me. Now you just come along and 
we will go up to the house, which isn’t far away, and you can 
see how people in the South live who know what good living 
is, and have plenty to eat. None of your ‘spoon vittles,’ but 
wholesome filling, made by an old colored Mammy who makes 
your appetite stay by you all the time. Mrs. Borland is a lot 
better than when she came, and if you think, after you have 
been up, that you’ll like my place, I can make room for 
you, too.” 

Ernest was warmly attracted by the homely, motherly 
[53] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


manner in which Mrs. Jarvis came at him, and acquiesced 
at once. 

The way lay across and beyond the Alamo Plaza, and the 
few minutes required to make the distance were fully occupied 
by the flowing remarks of the cheerfully verbose woman at his 
side: telling of the wonderful climate of San Antonio, and how 
soon he would be perfectly well again if he did what she told 
him to do. In front of a white-painted, comfortable frame 
dwelling, its wide verandas filled with easy rocking chairs, and 
a wonderful yard surrounded by a whitewashed picket fence 
and shaded by many trees of the tropics, fragrant with the 
sensuousness of the southern flowers, Mrs. Jarvis stopped and 
said simply: “This is it; I know you are going to like to be 
here better than at any hotel.” 

The broad fronds of the palms and all of the clustered 
blossoms of the oleander trees waved their welcome to him, 
too, on the breath of a gentle breeze which made the warm 
spring air a delightful luxury. Suddenly all the world was 
aglow to him when he realized that here was a spot where he 
could relax and dream, and through it all find his way to a 
comfortable peace of mind which would pull him back to the 
solid shore. He felt as if Mrs. Jarvis was some good angel 
who had been especially sent to conjure him to a state of per¬ 
fect health and happiness; and he also felt a sense of tre¬ 
mendous obligation to her for opening up this avenue of a 
languorous existence for which his soul thirsted. 

Going through the gate and up the brick pathway which 
the lowering branches of the live oaks shaded, he was soon 
espied by Mrs. Borland, who had seen him from the window 
of her room. She came down with the litheness of a health- 
filled young woman to greet him with: “Well, Ernest, you 
don’t know how glad I am to have you come. Yours is the 
first Chicago face I have seen for the two months I have been 
here, and I want you to stay right with me and nowhere else. 
Mrs. Jarvis is perfectly wonderful, and I shall miss my guess 
if she doesn’t perform a miracle with you, as she has with me. 
You can do about as you please, and after all it is the content¬ 
ment of mind without obligation which makes one grow lazily 
happy and fat, and that is what you and I need. Mrs. Jarvis 
and I are alone now with Mammy Sally, the cook, but Mr. and 

[54] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


Mrs. Snow, the other boarders, will return tomorrow from 
Goliad, where they have been for a few days’ visit, then with 
you we will just have a full house and get well together on 
this balmy air and the wonderful things which Mammy Sally 
gives us to eat. We expect Reverend Mr. Dodson, pastor of 
Mrs. Jarvis’ church, to call within a day or two, and then we 
will arrange to go with him to the old Franciscan Missions just 
outside the city. They are interesting and have a lot of early 
history about them which will tell you all you want to know 
about the first days of San Antonio.” 

Ernest was well pleased with these suggestions, as they 
promised to keep him busy, and his acquaintance with the 
Baptist minister would give him another phase of religious 
life that was strange to him. If he liked Mr. Dodson he 
would become friendly with him and take what interest he 
could in his church while he remained in the city. 

Mrs. Borland invited him out into the garden while she 
gathered a bouquet of flowers for the table—and such a collec¬ 
tion of roses and pansies, together with the flaming poinsettias, 
Ernest had seldom seen. “This is my daily task, and it seems 
the more I pick the more there are the next day waiting 
for me.” 

After resting for a little while on the cool and shady 
veranda the mid-day dinner was announced, and Ernest was 
cordially invited by Mrs. Jarvis to stay, and afterward, if he 
wished, he could return with her to the post office and from 
thence to the hotel. He very quickly decided that he would 
like to come at once—that afternoon, in fact—and to make 
his permanent stay right here where everything was so home¬ 
like and all the faces were so pleasant. He hoped Mr. and 
Mrs. Snow would be as agreeable. Mrs. Jarvis said: “Come 
along, my boy, and I will first show you where you are to 
sleep, so that you may know everything before you make up 
your mind.” The room, while small, possessed a good window 
looking over the flowers, and he could see a number of little 
birds flying about from tree to tree, and he thought to him¬ 
self : “How could I get anything more delightful if I was an 
heir-apparent, and couriers had been sent out to arrange things 
in advance.” 

He recalled the little patio in St. Peter street, and realized 
[55] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


that while this was entirely different, he thought he would find 
a six weeks’ stay really more satisfactory than had he remained 
there. He had the flowers and the birds in both places, but 
here really there was a great garden with its wider horizons 
where he could feel freer to think, and there was more air to 
breathe, indeed the whole surroundings were quieter and more 
restful. Then the memory of the vesper bells of San Fernando 
foretold the many similar times to come when he could hear 
them from his open window and think about his new-made 
friends, the Saints Sebastian, Anthony and Francis. He 
recalled what Mrs. Borland had said about the excursions out 
to the Franciscan Missions, and the connection came to his 
mind in an uncertain sort of way that Franciscan was from 
St. Francis, and he now believed that such a saint, to have all 
these missions named for him, must have had a remarkable 
history, and he would be indebted to the Rev. Mr. Dodson 
to be told all about it. These thoughts warmed his mind greatly 
to make the acquaintance of the minister, for he now looked 
at him as possessing a large amount of knowledge of the things 
he was most keen to learn about. It was no effort, except one 
of pleasure, therefore, to go to the hotel and arrange to have 
his belongings sent at once to the residence of Mrs. Jarvis. By 
tea time he was as much of a fixture there as any of the others. 

He spent the first evening pleasantly retailing all the home 
information to Mrs. Borland, and in turn looking over a late 
copy of a Chicago newspaper which she had, and which posted 
him up to date on local happenings there in which he was 
interested. 

He retired early, after unpacking his trunk and taking out 
the cabinet photograph of Alice which she had given him 
before he left home. He placed this on his table where he 
could always see it—the last thing at night and the first thing 
in the morning. 

As he sat by his open window that evening with his lamp 
extinguished, he looked out on the brilliance of the southern 
sky and said softly to himself : “The moon and the stars shine, 
too, in Chicago, and we can look at them together and find our 
companionship, although separated by a thousand unalterable 
miles.” 

During the night he awoke to the fact that the moon and 

[56] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


the stars were hidden—that their lights had gone out behind 
dense masses of black hurrying clouds, while a chilling air 
almost with the old frost sting from which he had so recently 
escaped fanned his face and caused him to hurriedly close the 
window and seek more extensive coverings. This was his first 
experience with something which resembled that most unwel¬ 
come visitor to San Antonio—the Norther—caused by high 
winds and a severe drop in temperature which brought on the 
cold waves in the higher latitudes. 

An unusual storm accompanied the fall in temperature 
and the raindrops began a monotonous and increasingly con¬ 
tinuous patter on the roof, and by morning the whole scene 
was dreary enough, with the likelihood of making the new day 
one of house keeping and hugging a snug log fire as closely 
as possible. 

Of course Mrs. Jarvis had known of Northers for many 
years past, and her parlor was delightfully equipped for just 
such an occasion. A large room with several windows through 
which all the processes of men and nature could be easily 
observed while sitting around a blazing fire of spluttering logs, 
with books and magazines with which to be serious when con¬ 
versation was at a low ebb. The old steel engravings of Wash¬ 
ington and Jefferson smiled down benignly from their walnut 
frames, while the somewhat antiquated figures in the wall 
paper pattern suggested a melancholy old age which slumbered 
on peacefully without disturbance. Of course that prince of 
family affairs—the whatnot—held faithfully to its treasures of 
wax flowers and sea shells, with an occasional bouquet of 
pressed remembrance of some bygone and long-forgotten event 
in the history of the Jarvis family. 

How serene and unsophisticated all this—typical of thou¬ 
sands of American homes which knew not the crowding events 
of the progressing years. Ernest thought of the old home of 
his grandparents in far away New Hampshire in which all just 
such things were, but kept in a tightly closed parlor, opened 
only for company, or on wedding or funeral occasions. 

Among the books which he had brought from Chicago 
was one in which he had taken an unusual interest as he looked 
into it from time to time on the train or during the leisure 
hours of his evenings in St. Peter street. The story of Silas 

[ 57 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


Mamer told to him by Alice had touched him in a sensitive 
place, because he learned from it that over-enthusiasm for any 
one thing might mislead him entirely by using his attainments 
in a mistaken direction. This he was determined not to do, 
and the determination was steadily forcing him to look at his 
mountain of life from all its sides before coming to a real con¬ 
clusion as to its proper dimensions. One thing he would do, to 
put within himself something he had never possessed, that was, 
clear, direct and comprehensive thinking. He believed the best 
incentive to this was to learn to read knowingly books which 
were written by those who had acquired studiously the ability 
to convey just such thoughts to their readers. Upon getting 
a storehouse of ideas from such a book, his own reflections 
could then proceed, and an item of established value to himself 
be thereby gained. This resulted in two things: a desire for 
more knowledge, and the satisfaction of having digested a lot 
of things someone had shown the ability to place invitingly 
before him. 

Just now he was sitting in an easy chair by the fire and 
looking out upon the tearful garden with its drooping leaves 
and blossoms, thinking about the closing scenes of George 
Eliot’s great novel, Romola. Were all the sacrifices and unfor¬ 
tunate experiences of Romola and Tessa worth their living 
them through for? He little knew now what that name Tessa 
would mean to him a few years hence, but he held the recollec¬ 
tion of this Tessa very sweetly in his remembrance. 

Here was Tito, a brilliant, ambitious young fellow, mis¬ 
leading a promising future, and ruining the loves and the lives 
of two devoted feminine hearts of Florence. He thought of 
Agnes and Dora in David Copperfield as other widely varied 
types to man’s attraction and wondered if he would ever 
become a Tito, or a David Copperfield, with Alice in the role 
of Romola or Agnes, and another Dora or Tessa, or perhaps 
imaginative Dora or Tessa, to come into his life and make a 
complex of it. He felt he knew little about women, but all the 
self-reliance he was trying to instill into his life he knew came 
from a woman. But, dropping this thought which did not seem 
to be getting him anywhere, the old question of saints and 
friars came before him again, and as he looked into the fire¬ 
place flames he could imagine himself standing in the open 

[ 58 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


plaza in Florence and seeing with his own eyes the grim figure 
of Savonarola being burned for his convictions—this time a 
saint or a prophet being destroyed by the church itself—the 
church of the corrupt Borgias, who stopped at nothing to gain 
their ends. 

This friar was a Dominican, different in the color of his 
costume from a Franciscan, but he showed the same ability to 
suffer as did St. Sebastian of the arrows. As he sat sleepily 
dreaming of these things and realizing that he knew just 
enough about them to create an appetite to know more and 
wondering through what open gate he would pass to find him¬ 
self in a place where knowledge could be picked like cherries 
from overburdened trees for the asking, he heard footsteps on 
the brick pathway to the house, and a pull at the bell which 
betokened a masculine grasp at the knob. In fact, it was no 
less a person than the Reverend John Dodson, pastor of the 
Baptist Church of San Antonio, Texas, calling in a pastoral 
way on the members of his congregation. 

It was past the middle of the afternoon and he had 
reckoned on finding not only Mrs. Jarvis back from the post 
office by that time, but also the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Snow 
and Mrs. Borland. He was somewhat nonplussed, therefore, to 
find only Mrs. Borland to meet him, and as he had never called 
before since she arrived and only knew that at Mrs. Jarvis’ 
request she had gone to hear him preach one Sunday morning, 
he felt somewhat embarrassed at the situation. However, he 
was cold and wet, and the sight of a cheerful fire and a com¬ 
fortable chair, together with a cordial request from her to come 
in and dry himself and await Mrs. Jarvis’ return, mollified him 
and he became interested at once when the further unexpected 
face of Ernest appeared before his horizon from the recesses 
of a large easy chair in the farther end of the room, by one of 
the garden windows. Mrs. Borland at once made things agree¬ 
able by introducing him as a young friend of hers from Chi¬ 
cago who had come to stay a short time to recover from a 
generally rundown condition due to overwork and a too rapid 
growth physically. 

Ernest quickly drew a mental picture of the clergyman, 
noting especially the square, firm-set jaw which gave a look of 
determination to his otherwise not especially attractive fea- 

[ 59 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


tures, which he observed were surmounted by a crop of auburn 
hair, and set off along the cheeks by “sideburns” of the same 
tinge. The face altogether looked sternly puritanical, but as 
the body did not show any signs of emaciation, he concluded 
that he was different from the saints whose images he had 
carried in his mind since his visit to San Fernando. The 
Reverend was graciously glad to know Ernest, and made 
inquiries about things personal, finally inviting him cordially 
to make the Baptist Church his place of worship during his 
stay in San Antonio. Mrs. Jarvis came in just at this juncture, 
and in her homely cordial way invited him to stay for tea, and 
reminded him of their prospective trip out to the missions, 
which was to take place now in a few days—as soon as the 
Snows returned from Goliad; and “You, too, Ernest, are here 
just in time to go with us. The pastor can tell us so much 
that we would never know otherwise, about the days when 
they were built and what happened there.” 

“Well, that interests me immensely,” said Ernest, “for I 
am anxious to learn a lot about these Franciscans. I have 
already been over to San Fernando and seen some reminders 
of them.” Reverend Dodson looked at him as though he had 
it in mind to say: “Better look out for them; they are idol 
worshippers and know not the true religion of Christ”; but 
instead he casually remarked that all of the early years of the 
history of the town were built around these different missions, 
commencing with the Alamo, which they could almost see from 
the windows of the room in which they were sitting. 

Ernest, who had watched the face of the minister intently, 
thought that what he said and what was in his mind were two 
vastly different things, and once again that old word “intol¬ 
erance” flashed before his eyes, and he felt a certain repug¬ 
nance toward the Reverend which surprised him, inasmuch as 
he was only the type of mind to which he had been accustomed 
as long as he could remember. Would Alice now say, were 
she present: “Lesson No. 3, Ernest; you are getting along 
finely in your education—keep it up.” 

However, he thought no more about it—the evidently deep 
earnestness and sincerity of the man became the stronger 
impression on his mind, and when they had finally made their 
arrangements for the day at the missions and the pastor took 

[ 60 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


his leave, Ernest warmly grasped his hand at receiving another 
cordial invitation to make himself at home in the Baptist 
church. Later in the evening a reaction set in as he sat think¬ 
ing of his home, and how lonesome he was here, so far away 
amongst strangers. What could he expect in a place like San 
Antonio—made up as it was of a mixed population, and that 
almost wholly of the uncultured. There was no music, no art 
of any kind and scarcely a book or magazine worth his atten¬ 
tion. Even the weather had gone back on its reputation, and 
if there were to be many days and nights like the last one, he 
would be in utter despair. He could now imagine what kind 
of people attended the Baptist Church, and he could foresee 
that any interest he might have in it would be of the kind from 
which he was trying to pull away. He felt that the minister 
would be so hungry for what companionship Ernest could give 
him, as a relief from the monotony of his pastoral work, that 
he would be very selfish to refuse the consolation. He hoped 
through the acquaintance to get some points of view from a 
man twice his age which would help him to solve his problems. 
With this rather comforting solution and with the hope that 
another day would bring sunshine and a return to normal 
temperature, he retired to his room and to an undisturbed 
sleep. 

Luckily the touch of the norther had been slight, as the 
warmer rain had made the term “norther” a misnomer. The 
dampness brought the feeling of a chill which was not as great 
as it seemed, and with a clear sky in the early morning, the 
rising sun had a twinkle in his eye which bade all the waking 
world to be a little bit more cheerful, as better things were in 
store for it. 

To this situaiton Ernest awoke, plenty of farmyard noises 
of rejoicing and the sun making a gratefully accepted warmth 
all about. This quickly restored him to his usual cheerfulness, 
and he immediately proposed to himself to go out as soon as 
possible and take a long stroll all about the town—to see every¬ 
thing there was which was new and novel to him. If the 
Snows returned today the plan was to go to the missions on 
the next—starting in the morning—taking a lunch along, and 
so make a day of it. His ultimate thought of the day’s jour- 
neyings was to again visit San Fernando and make the 

[ 61 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


acquaintance of some one of the lay brethren, perhaps, in order 
to bring him into some direct point of contact with an ancient 
house of Israel to which he was almost an entire stranger. “It 
seems I must go away from home to get a little learning,” he 
said to himself as he finally “cleared for action” by leaving the 
house and facing the direction of San Pedro Park, which he 
thought first to visit and enjoy the sparkle of the clear flowing 
river as it meandered about after leaving the bubbling springs. 

The “manana” of the warming day soon forced itself upon 
him, and he could feel the thrill of his rising temperature as he 
made the turns necessary to reach tht park, where he was glad 
to sit down under the shade of the oaks and the pomegranates. 
All the way along he met the patient little burros plodding the 
streets, and the soft lisping accents of what was once the Cas¬ 
tilian tongue came to his ears from the voices of the som- 
breroed Mexicans who accompanied them. Truly this was a 
delightfully foreign picture which appealed to the art instinct 
lying half dormant within him. If he could take an easel now 
and place it before him in this verdant, blossoming little park 
with its flowing river and translate the scene to canvas he 
would be one of the happiest of mortals. 

Thus he sat in contemplation for an hour or more. Sud¬ 
denly he saw in the distance, walking toward him, the figure 
of a man whose dignified mien and plainness of dress suggested 
the clerical order of some unknown sect. Ernest’s face must 
have looked somewhat disconsolate at that moment, undoubt¬ 
edly because he felt a keen sense of disappointment that he 
could not be the artist he was ambitious just then to be, and 
was realizing the futility of his ever being, for the priest 
paused, and in a wondering sort of a way looked at him 
silently, and then dropped on the seat with a sigh of comfort, 
as if at rest from a long walk. He presently took a little book 
from his pocket and was soon absorbed in its contents. Ernest 
could see his lips move as if in prayer, and occasionally the 
finger would pass from his head and across his breast in the 
sign of the cross. The words of the book were in Latin, and 
Ernest was interested enough now to make bold to remark, 
after he noticed that the man had finished his devotions, or 
whatever it was he was doing, that it was awfully nice to sit 
there after the rain and the cold which had preceded. The 

[ 62 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


priest at once was aware, by the accent, that Ernest was a 
stranger, and from the North, and replied in a very generous 
tone that it was so indeed, and it must be especially agreeable 
to one who had evidently come from a very different climate. 
From this, of course, the conversation became general, and 
when Ernest said that he was from Chicago and here for a 
time to benefit his health, the stranger became enthusiastic, 
stating that he was called Brother Cristoforo, at present con¬ 
nected with San Fernando; several of his years had been spent 
in Chicago in the parish of St. Peter’s church at the comer of 
Polk and Clark streets, a very old church in a very drab and 
degraded neighborhood. Ill health, too, had finally forced him 
to give up his work there, and he was transferred to San 
Antonio. The change had greatly benefited him in health, but 
he missed the peculiar interest with which St. Peter’s had 
endowed him. If the heavens had opened to him, Ernest could 
not have more warmly responded in the joy of such an 
acquaintance as this. Now he would have, for several weeks, 
a companion in whom he could confide, and between the Rev¬ 
erend John Dodson, the Baptist, and Brother Cristoforo, the 
Franciscan, make pace with his education as the two opposing 
millstones ground their grist for him. 

In parting Ernest casually mentioned his intention of 
making a trip to the missions the next day, and received a 
cordial invitation from the priest to call on him when he had 
a mind to, and he would tell him about the life of St. Francis, 
after whom the missions were named. This Ernest gratefully 
accepted, and they parted, each well pleased with the prospect 
of a further acquaintance. 

On arriving home, late in the afternoon, Ernest found that 
Mr. and Mrs. Snow had come in from Goliad, and Mrs. Bor¬ 
land at once made them known to each other. Mr. Snow was 
a thin, wiry, short-statured little man, weighing about ninety 
pounds, who would blow away some day to the promised land 
on a heavenly wind. He had attained the age of seventy or so, 
but had not acquired any fortune to keep him in luxury in his 
declining years; in fact, he was obliged to pinch the pennies 
to make ends meet, but withal was cheerful and possessed a 
rapid tongue and a good education. Mrs. Snow was not far 
behind in her talking faculties, having been a school teacher 

[ 63 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


and only shortly married to Mr. Snow, although acknowledg¬ 
ing but forty-five years as having passed over her head. They 
were a congenial pair, nevertheless, and Ernest felt that he 
would not lack for entertainment while they were there. Of 
course they came from the North—some little town in Iowa— 
where they spent their summers, and had liked San Antonio 
and Mrs. Jarvis’ boarding house now for two or three winters. 
Ernest found them agreeable people after an evening spent in 
a narration of their experiences at Goliad and their anticipated 
pleasure in the trip of the morrow. 

Mrs. Jarvis had been talking with Mammy Sally, and the 
prospects for a fine southern hamper of luncheon were very 
good. “You all white folks from up No’th doant know what 
real gastronomies is—wait ’til Ise cook co’n and rice for you 
for a few weeks an’ I’ll ’bolish melancholy from yuh do’ steps, 
suah,” was the parting salutation from Mammy for the night. 

San Antonio, 

February 10, 1879. 

Dear Alice: 

I have lived so much in the past five days that I am apt 
to explode with experiences. I won’t write you now to say 
more than that yesterday a party from our house, with the 
Baptist minister as a guide, visited the old Franciscan missions 
just outside of the city, on the San Antonio river. We started 
early and carried a large luncheon with us. There were six in 
the party, and with fine weather we were able to take in the 
sights at all of them, although they are separated several miles 
distant from one another. You will imagine buildings con¬ 
structed in 1730 and thereabouts, in Moorish style of architec¬ 
ture, on the banks of a beautiful river and shaded picturesquely 
by tropical trees like the palm, the olive and the pomegranate— 
pecan trees and the crepe myrtle occasionally. The architec¬ 
ture is very attractive to the untrained eye of the North, which 
is entirely unused to the warmth and the romance of a civiliza¬ 
tion like that of the Moors. There were many sculptured 
images of stone, mural decorations and an abundance of orna¬ 
ments. The walls covered with cement and the floors of a 
native tiling. At the Mission of Concepcion, about two miles 
from the city, services are now occasionally held, although 

[ 64 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


vandalism and time are rapidly reducing the building to a ruin. 
At San Jose de Aguayo is the most imposing and the most 
beautiful of the missions. The dome and a part of the arched 
roof have fallen, but still the building bears witness of a won¬ 
derful work of Old World art carried by priests into the 
wilderness of the new. The remarkable carvings ornamenting 
the stone facings of the doorways, the great oak and cedar 
doors are the equal of any of Spain’s. A celebrated artist was 
sent out from that country who spent years in carving the 
statues and doing other ornamental work. Then the missions 
of San Juan de Caprisana and San Francisco de la Espada, 
much more in ruins but giving one the melancholy feeling of 
greatness once achieved and then lost in a lingering death of 
recollections which are getting dimmer now as the decades pass 
silently along. These missions of course represent the spirit 
of the Old World that was ambitious, first, to extend the 
dominion of the monarchs of the days of New World finding; 
and secondly, to the ambition of the Roman Church to plant the 
cross on the frontiers everywhere. 

In South America and Mexico they found prolific soil, as 
the natives were acquiescent and accepted Christianity, espe¬ 
cially when offered at the point of the sword; much more com¬ 
placently than did the Apache and Comanche Indians of Texas. 
The latter were too warlike and too fond of freedom to accept 
a menial condition of life—servants to the soldiers and friars 
of the missions—in return for baptism and a few huts in which 
to live, com to eat and utensils to cook with. 

There were the “indios bravos” in distinction to those who 
yielded, dubbed by the contemptuous name of “indios reduci- 
dos.” The Pueblo Indians of New Mexico and the Aztecs of 
Mexico were complacent and accepted Christianity in such 
great numbers that the priests had difficulty at times in giving 
them prompt baptism. The fierce spirit of the Texas tribes, 
however, kept them away in the freedom of the wilderness, 
except when they made a descent on the missions to steal the 
provisions and stock and now and then carry away a few 
scalps. Finally, through all these growing troubles, the patron¬ 
age of the government was withdrawn and the missions became 
secularized in 1794. Indians who were peaceable and who 
were willing to be servants when the time of secularization 

[65] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


arrived had been reduced in numbers to an insignificant frac¬ 
tion of what they once were. I must say I can’t call San 
Antonio a religious town, and if what I see is the final result 
of one hundred and fifty years of strenuous application of 
religious principles, I feel like saying it looks very much a 
failure to me. Of course the Baptist minister says it is all 
because these people worshipped idols instead of the true God, 
and certainly all their work was of no effect and must be 
undone. I have just made the acquaintance of a young Fran¬ 
ciscan brother who is connected with the church of San Fer¬ 
nando here, and whom I find lived in Chicago and was a 
novitiate at St. Peter’s church. He is an intelligent, wideawake 
sort of a man and has invited me to call on him. I shall do so, 
and of course will get a lot of information from him about 
St. Francis and all his missions. I think the little I have written 
you now will give you an appetite for what is to come later. 
The pendulum of my ticking clock is swinging me to sleep. 


[66] 


CHAPTER IV 


The Damascus Road 

Ernest lay in a hammock on the veranda enjoying the 
fragrance-laden air of the moist spring morning. The dew 
was giving itself back ot the invisible under the persuasion of a 
warming sun. The book he held in his hand, and from which 
he read a page—then to muse upon what he had read—might 
have been the printed thoughts of Ralph Waldo Emerson, but 
the title page suggested that some one wished anonymously to 
put a few reflections before any intelligent person who might 
care to absorb them. The writer might have been an essayist, 
or a poet, or both, as Emerson was, but the whole atmosphere 
was that of one whose sensitive and elegant refinement found 
expression in a delightful flow of language which captivated an 
opening and imaginative mind like that of Ernest’s. 

Then he read: “And so the great world has gone on with 
faith in a resurrection from the past. Slavery of the body has 
seen, through its falling shackles, the softer glow in the skies 
of mass opinion. Slavery of the mind relaxes as the old super¬ 
stitions fall away one by one and lend courage and self-reliance 
to the individual. Sacredness walks now in the fields of grow¬ 
ing wheat where sun and air make free to play their way 
unquestioned, and the dying monasteries of the mind have 
opened doors through which may walk the braver child of a 
fragile dream brought forth to glorious action. Yet there lurk 
the bonds of pride and wealth that hold us in our present rest¬ 
lessness, but such bondage yet remaining must dissolve itself 
slowly and surely in the passage of the years. Our minds now 
rule stronger than our passions, and this very fact not only 
indicates real progress, but insures permanence of direction. 
We feel satisfied to follow the impelling force within us toward 
our divinest consummation in the better ordering of the lives 
of a world humanity. What can religion, wealth and respect¬ 
ability see in the man on the cross—they can use him as a 

[67] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


symbol of some conventionalism of the times, but the true sig¬ 
nificance and glory of martyrdom for a cause does not enter 
into their conception/’ 

These were stunning words to a mind like that of Ernest’s 
which had been cast in a certain mold and solidified itself into 
the shape the mold had presented—now this writer was advo¬ 
cating the free play of individual thought. What did he mean 
by “a divine consummation in the better ordering of the lives 
of a world humanity” ? Were not all men born to die, and in 
the interim to accept or reject eternal salvation? Our lives, he 
had learned, were but a span in the everlasting scheme of 
things, and it mattered not about our temporal condition if we 
only committed ourselves to that principal thing—salvation. 
Here he found himself in the world with countless other mil¬ 
lions born for just one purpose: to accept or reject salvation, 
and then die to get the reward, or punishment. 

At any other time than just now he would not have ques¬ 
tioned this perfectly obvious proposition, but because he had 
commenced to analyze, not only his thoughts but to observe 
things going on around him, there began to be two sides to 
every question which arose in his mind. This was interesting, 
and certainly he did not desire now to put the idea aside with 
the mere answer that it was the suggestion of the devil and 
should not be permitted to linger in his mental presence. He 
even grew bolder as he said to himself: The man who wrote 
what I have just read knows a great deal more than I do, and 
why should I not listen to the things which seem to him to be 
a development of men’s responsibility in life beyond their own 
personal salvation. 

Was there something which smacked of selfishness in the 
thought of personal salvation, and how many of the people that 
he knew were really possessed of its qualifications? Of very 
late years he had commenced to notice somewhat that there 
was a feeling of unrest in the industrial world which would 
naturally be more apparent in a great central city like Chicago 
than in other smaller ones like the frontier town of San 
Antonio. In Chicago were growing factories, expanding rail¬ 
roads, increasing building enterprises, everything in fact which 
attracts numbers of men; and as Europe just now was pouring 
out its millions who sought the opportunities of such centers, 

[68] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


the questions concerning the lives of “a world humanity” to 
which the writer referred were becoming important ones, and 
problems, too, for the thinking people to wrestle with. Was 
the church doing this thinking, or was it going complacently 
on its way, carrying on its back the bread of a personal salva¬ 
tion in another world, and shutting its eyes to the perplexities 
of this one? 

Ernest was now no longer a boy—he was a well developed 
young man, serious to the point of melancholy almost, and yet 
his thought had been simple enough in that it did not get off 
the single track it had always known. With his reckless nature 
in turning towards a constant activity, however, it was per¬ 
fectly apparent that if he ever got to thinking in larger terms 
than he had been accustomed to, he would find himself strug¬ 
gling in a great morass from which it would be difficult to 
extricate himself. In a flash the old text from St. John’s 
gospel came to him: “And ye shall know the truth, and the 
truth shall make you free.” He recognized that the apostle had 
intended to convey the truth of salvation, but the words now 
had a more inclusive meaning to Ernest. The truth, whatever 
it might be, he would know, and it would make him free also. 

And, after all, did he wish to know anything but the truth, 
and would he not attain to supreme satisfaction if he became 
convinced that anything which he really did know was the 
truth? This was dangerous thinking, but it was the artist in 
him speaking out and demanding attention. Suppose he looked 
at a beautiful piece of sculptured marble and it was delightfully 
perfect excepting for some one very apparent omission, or dis¬ 
figurement of shape, or a palpable error in calculation as to the 
length of the arm or the size of the foot; what would his 
reaction to it be? The whole work would sink into the back¬ 
ground of his memory excepting the defect. This he would 
carry away with him as a condemnation of the whole thing. 

Yes, the truth must be wholly true and consistent with his 
demands, and if he could not be satisfied of the verity of any¬ 
thing it would be of necessity displaced by something which 
would better fill this demand. 

Another thing the writer had said which burned itself into 
his attention was: “Our minds now rule stronger than our 
passions,” which indicated a certain balance and complacency 

[69] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


in human thinking that would not tolerate prejudice or parti - 
zanship. Man must be above his emotions to the extent of 
formulating conclusions calmly and dispassionately and then 
applying the emotions to the certified conclusions. The emo¬ 
tions would be potent factors in vitalizing and giving motivity 
to truths which had been demonstrated in the still ocean of 
thought. The more he pondered on this quality of thinking, 
the more it seemed to him as if the larger part of religious 
practice was born of emotion only, and had its ebb and flow of 
tide in the quantity of nervous energy expended. Certainly 
this was true of revivals by which persons of a long continued 
habit of life were suddenly transformed into something entirely 
different and commenced to experience sensations and feelings 
which were absolutely foreign to their former existence. 

This now seemed to possess the elements of difficulty and 
did not appear to be in the natural course of events—things 
possessing permanence. He knew, too, in the Roman Catholic 
church novenas and pilgrimages were resorted to for the stimu¬ 
lation of the interest of emotional minds in the life of the 
church. Shrines there were in many places where the thou¬ 
sands could feel the mystic spell of the unknown laws of 
psychology which strongly drew people’s minds into a favor¬ 
able attitude towards that particular branch of the Christian 
faith. And, after all, what great differences were there in the 
methods of attracting the interest of human beings ? His own 
church had the ceremonies of baptism and christening, the 
Lord’s Supper, stained glass windows, an organ, pulpit and 
pews, and nearly all of the symbols which other churches had, 
excepting a certain picturesqueness which pertained to the pre¬ 
sentation of the services to the people. In this he felt that the 
Catholic church was far more interesting than the Protestant, 
just because it did attract the eye, and the sentiment through 
the sense of the eye. He could not just now dismiss these 
evidences with the easy words of Reverend Dodson: “that it 
all was mere idol worship” to dull, prosaic people who had no 
great animation for anything and could not ejaculate an expres¬ 
sion of feeling on seeing a beautiful thing which might be the 
appeal to them; but as for him, his whole nature called for 
processions and chants and liturgy in great cathedrals where 
one might be alone with oneself, or alone in a crowd, just as 

[70] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


his inner feeling prompted. Now that he had the opportunity, 
he surely would make the most of his invitation to become 
better acquainted with his friar friend at San Fernando. 

Of course Ernest was subject to varying moods, and while 
he might be of this willing disposition just now under the 
influence of his latest thoughts, after a few hours, when this 
kindled flame of enthusiasm had died away, there might be an 
absolute revolt against the whole system of a religion endowed 
with such paraphernalia. He had this satisfaction, however, 
of realizing that never before had he even the temerity to 
compare any other scheme of religious thinking favorably with 
his own; and if by such a procession of trains of thought he 
could eventually be satisfied that his old religion was the best, 
then all of the exertion of the thinking would have made the 
result worth finding out. He would like to know now, not so 
much the explanation of the different processes in the Catholic 
form of service as to be informed of the history and character 
of such a man as St. Francis of Assisi, who was the founder 
of the Franciscan order, now so powerful in numbers and 
influence all over the world. Certainly he could not go to an 
abler teacher than Brother Cristoforo, his newly found friend. 

Well, then, this was his latest resolution, that he would 
call at the cathedral that very afternoon, and if the opportunity 
offered would become a willing student of St. Francis. Much 
to his pleasure, he found Brother Cristoforo glad to see him; 
he also found that he was an artist and was then engaged in 
painting in oil a series of panels depicting scenes from the very 
life itself—this in the parish house—and he had been selected 
because of an innate natural ability to do such work. 

Cristoforo was an Italian, and while he had lived in the 
United States for twenty years or more, still the ripe years of 
his youth were spent in beautiful Italy—the land of artists— 
where the atmosphere breathed is different from anywhere else. 
“Life, also, is not the same,” he said to Ernest, “as it is in 
other places. It is free, fantastic, brooding, thoughtless and 
languishing, fiery and gentle, like its sun, its sky, its soil. Here 
one soars aloft on the wings of the poet, the painter, the 
musician, and revels with them in the present as well as the 
greater past. I was intoxicated with the work of great artists 
at Assisi, the native town of St. Francis, where for three hun- 

[71] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


dred years they had poured out their hearts in recognition of 
the majestic simplicity of his soul. I was an artist, too, in a 
humble sort of way, but I became so imbued with the spirit of 
his self-abnegation that I decided to devote my life thence¬ 
forth not only to the Franciscan brotherhood, but to do my 
especial part by painting such scenes as these in any church 
anywhere in the world where the opportunity might present 
itself. 

“St. Francis, as you may know, or, perhaps you being a 
protestant do not know, founded his order based on the idea 
of sanctity and humility, with a most absolute self-abnegation. 
Strange to say, he attracted many famous persons possessed of 
worldly power and eminence. Their very contact with the new 
force in the tired world of the twelfth century brought to 
popularity lives professing a lowly poverty, and an abject self- 
immolation. This accounts in a large measure for the pale, 
thoughtful faces and heavenward looks of the friars as trans¬ 
lated to canvas by the early painters. The new impulse given 
to the world spiritually by the Franciscans and Dominicans, 
who had much in common, was the most remarkable down to 
the time of Luther, and there is nothing in the history of 
Wesley, or Whitfield even, which may be compared with the 
enthusiasm everywhere created. In an age of tyranny they 
became the protectors of the weak; in an age of ignorance the 
instructors of mankind, and in an age of profligacy stern vindi¬ 
cators of character and the domestic virtues of life. The 
greatest evidence of their power to me is in the immortal can¬ 
vasses of men like Perugino, Raphael, Giotto and Murillo, the 
sculptured works of Donatello and the Della Robbias. Such 
men must have a great subject for their inspiration, and in the 
life and work of St. Francis their minds were fascinated by the 
genuineness of his simplicity. The world needed that kind of 
a contribution to life then, just as it does now, and the spirit 
of St. Francis as a type can arouse those of a singlemindedness 
to the enthusiasm of the early Christians and their conceptions 
of the kind of a program Christ had revealed to them. I some¬ 
times despair of a religion which has no art inspiration behind 
it, for this sentiment, expressed in any one of its many phases, 
uplifts the eyes of the multitudes just as their eyes are uplifted 
to the spectacle of the Saviour on the cross. Man needs to 

[72] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


fertilize his imagination, and by so doing stirs up his devotion 
to the undying hungerings of the soul for things eternal. You 
will pardon me if I am speaking at undue length on a subject 
with which I am strongly fascinated, but I believe you would 
not be here unless you at least possessed a curiosity to know 
about some of the things which are new and strange to you. 
The most hopeless of men are those who can only view an art 
expression of religion in the sense that it becomes idolatrous, 
and I am convinced that many who have only the sombre eyes 
of a cold puritanism will judge it in this way.” 

Ernest, who had been thrilled with finding that Brother 
Cristoforo was a painter, could only say, almost with tears in 
his eyes: “I have come here to learn, and like St. Paul on the 
way to Damascus, if God directs me into another and better 
way of understanding, I will gladly say, ‘Here am I; take me 
and do with my life according to Thy will/ It is enough for me 
to tell you, my brother, that I am a puritan born and bred, but 
away back in my blood is instilled a love for the joyous and 
beautiful, and I want a religion which will satisfy the hunger 
and longing of which I have always been conscious and which 
must be satisfied—I don’t know how. What would I give to 
be as you are—an artist imbued with a burning mission to 
memoralize the typical events in the life of a man who com¬ 
mands your unequivocal admiration, and having a field as wide 
as the great world in which to express yourself. You, in the 
fullness of your opportunity and ability to use it, cannot appre¬ 
ciate the poverty of soul of one like me, who can but dumbly 
look on, helpless to do his part in a great cause which repre¬ 
sents all that is worth while in life. I begin to realize now, as 
a new thought, that poverty is opportunity, and the opening 
door to the expression by the individual of the real greatness 
which lies slumbering within him. It must be that Christ 
meant this very thing when he admonished his followers to ‘sell 
that they possessed, and distribute to the poor.’ In this way 
their minds would not be eternally uneasy lest what they did 
have be stolen or lost in the possession of some one else. 

“As I look about me now and see a world of supposed 
Christians and Jews absorbed in the acquirement of things 
which money can buy, or money itself, I feel what a reaction 
has come in the very name of religion against the principles 

[73] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


taught by the prophets and Jesus himself. Does it show that 
after all religion is a failure in that it has no real hold on the 
determination of people? 

“That is a hard question to answer, and I fear the only 
answer will be that some day the madness for possession and 
power will defeat the very ends for which it is striving, and 
the whole structure built on human greed and selfishness will 
fall to the ground of its great weight, and prepare the way for 
something better. I have just been reading an essay in which 
the writer states that ‘our minds rule stronger now than our 
passions/ and it gives me, as I think of what we are saying, a 
force of hopefulness that greed, which is one form of passion, 
may give place to a better ruling of the kingdom of the mind.” 

Brother Cristoforo was somewhat amazed by the revela¬ 
tion of the mind of his newly made friend, but everything 
which he said touched a responsive chord, and he at once 
realized that no differences in religion could prevent his sym¬ 
pathy with the cry of the human heart seeking a way out of 
darkness. “If you will permit me, I would like to tell you the 
story of St. Francis, and as we go along I will point out to 
you in these panels illustrations of his life which I have now 
almost completed—some of its most striking events. I am not 
striving to influence you at all, for I already observe that you 
will think out your problem for yourself, but will limit myself 
to giving you the points which stimulated me as an artist and 
fulfilled my yearnings for a satisfying religion.” 

Ernest willingly assented to this proposal, because it was to 
give him exactly the thing for which he came, with the added 
feature of the pictures. As they approached the first of the 
panels, which was of the saint as a little child walking in the 
woods with his parents, Cristoforo commenced his narration: 
“You perhaps have not seen costumes like these. I have 
painted everything in solid colors, for I like the rich, warm 
effect of softness which they produce. You will notice the 
absolute simplicity of the garments worn by all three, although 
the family was ‘well to do’; the boy’s father was one of the 
rich men of Assisi, and if it had not been for his mother the 
chances are that St. Francis would have fallen far short of 
becoming a saint when he grew to manhood. His mother was 
a Provencal and spoke in the poetic accents of the troubadors. 

[74] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


Although transported by her marriage to Italy, she thought and 
dreamed of her own land. This all happened away back in 
1181, when the world was emerging from the Dark Ages and 
entering into the long period of the Crusaders, where Western 
Europe struck steel with Oriental Saracens and stirred the 
imaginations of the Christians and Mohammedans as they had 
never been stirred before. 

“Francis as a boy and young man grew up surrounded by 
all that wealth and pleasure could give him—in fact, he was 
known as the gayest of the gay. It was not until he was in 
his late twenties that the same voice which caused St. Paul to 
turn back on his way to Damascus spoke to Francis, who was 
away at Spoleto, asking him what was his aim in life, and 
after he had replied naively: ‘Earthly honor, and what else 
should he seek?’ the voice replied: ‘Return to Assisi, and 
there it will be told you how to interpret this vision.’ 

“He returned to his old life of gaiety until there gradually 
grew into his mind and from his own thought, fed undoubtedly 
by divine springs, the impelling feeling that there was some¬ 
thing absolutely unjust in the idea that he was serving his 
greatest usefulness in life by continuing the old habits. One 
day his mother said to her servants, when the table was over¬ 
loaded, ‘For whom is all this bread?’ Francis, overhearing, 
answered: ‘For the poor; are they not our own? Shall we 
not give all to God?’ And the mother smiled through her 
tears. So his mission began, and he was never again the 
Francis of his earlier years after that day. 

“Returning soon thereafter from a pilgrimage to Rome, 
where he gave away everything he possessed to beggars and 
lepers, he found great joy in walking about the beautiful fields 
of Assisi. One day he entered the old chapel of St. Damian 
and asked for God’s guidance, and the voice which had spoken 
to him once before replied: ‘Go and repair my house which is 
falling into ruin.’ In my second panel you will see Francis far 
from impressing you as a rich young man possessing every¬ 
thing he craved and more. Here you will see him in the coarse 
habiliments of a monk, carrying a heavy block of stone on his 
shoulder, on the way to help repair the old church. You will 
notice how curiously and wonderingly the group of neighbors 
sitting on their doorsteps is watching him as he goes by them. 

[75] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


He looks very determined, however, and not at all ashamed of 
what he is doing, although it is the work of menials. You may 
be sure that, had his father been at home just at that time, 
there would have been a stern protest, for he was not in sym¬ 
pathy with any such manifestation. Francis to him was to be 
his honored successor in business, and when he heard, upon his 
return, of this adventure his anger knew no bounds. He beat 
him and dragged him to imprisonment, thinking to teach him 
the wrong of such an hallucination. Francis only rejoiced over 
all this and sought the bishop, saying that he was accountable 
only to God for what he did. The bishop advised him to give 
up everything for his father; but Francis said: ‘Not my 
beliefs, but only my clothes.’ This he did excepting for a 
haircloth shirt, to which the bishop added a mantle until the 
old gown of a laborer was brought for him. Upon receiving 
it he dipped his hand into mortar and drew a large cross upon 
it. Then, facing his father, he said: ‘Until now I have called 
you my father; henceforth I can truly say, “Our Father which 
art in Heaven,” for he is my wealth, and in Him do I place 
all my hope.’ From this he went into solitude, and the poetry 
of his soul broke forth in the woods, singing to his brother, 
the wind, and his sisters, the birds, of the love of our Lord in 
the sweet provencal speech of his beloved mother. 

“He was now a free man and ready to begin his life of 
poverty and self-abnegation. Here was his position succinctly 
stated in a few words: He had no quarrel with riches, or 
with rich men. In his idea of the world Dives had a place, but 
Lazarus was the more to be honored because he was poor. He 
was convinced that the world would always have poverty, and 
that contentment and peace could come to every human being 
only by honoring and loving poverty. And thus his great work 
began, based on the well-known passage in St. Matthew: ‘If 
thou wouldst be perfect, go sell that which thou hast and give 
to the poor.and come, follow me.’ 

“In my next panel you will now see Francis as a mendi¬ 
cant, going about with bare feet; his one hooded garment tied 
at the waist with cords, bareheaded and with a bowl in his 
hands, into which a peasant woman on her doorstep is pouring 
gruel or porridge which he has begged of her. A dog with his 
tail between his legs is sniffing about him suspiciously, as 

[76] 



ERNEST WILMERDING 


though he might be a robber walking about under false pre¬ 
tences. Aren’t these solid soft colors in greens, purples and 
browns satisfying to the eyes? They seem so very restful 
to me.” 

As Cristoforo spoke the rich, full, trembling tones of the 
grand organ in the cathedral adjoining came to them through 
the open window, and they both paused, seized with the same 
intoxication at the sounds of the growing climax in the passion 
of Isolde as she sings her last song over the body of the dead 
Tristan. 

The waves of the music rose higher and higher as the 
organist, lost to himself and all else save the tragedy which 
was being enacted before him in his mind’s eye, played on. 
This made his art an expression of the highest spirituality, as 
though he was enwrapt in a theme of Christ himself, in his 
dying transfiguration. Both were startled at this unusual 
music from a cathedral organ. To Cristoforo it was only an 
organist at practice; but to Ernest it was the most profound 
outburst of the human soul he had ever experienced. His 
mind was filled by the visions of St. Francis which had both 
interested him and worked his sympathies to a very mellow 
stage, and when the added thrill of the great organ came to 
him through the open window of the church, he felt the unison 
of all the elements of a perfected life within himself, and 
stood rooted to the spot as if transfixed by a magic spell. Then 
his eyes were opened to the power of suggestion—this indeed, 
was the basis of religious ecstasy—he could shake himself free 
from it and become sensitive again to a commonplace world— 
but why do it? The organist and Brother Cristoforo both 
were lost in the madness of their art impulse—the strong out- 
reaching arm of a master within who gave them continuously 
the greatest joys of life which were withheld from all but a 
chosen few. He awoke to a consciousness that the eye of his 
friend was upon him, and he found with it a smile of sweet 
satisfaction, and Cristoforo’s lips moving audibly to say: 

“ ‘Tis then I stop content, 

Nor would I e’er repent 
Nor turn to joys untasted, 

But calmly rest translated 
Through life’s supremest hope.” 

[ 77 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


And as the notes of the organ died away the flaming glow 
within died, too, and they were both conscious of having been 
in the presence of an eternal verity. 

How difficult it is, and how seldom it is that one ever 
approaches these eternal verities. Any art expression is a 
medium of approach to them, but to get very near—yes, that 
is another thing. Art can approach the experiences of life, but 
art interpretation is not life experience itself. It is only as 
near to it as a beautiful picture hanging on the wall of a gallery 
can be to the real thing it depicts. A sensuous bit of music 
expressing the intensity of love cannot be love itself—only the 
resemblance, or the reaction of memory of the human being 
to what he has already experienced. So to Ernest: now he 
felt the failure of any substitute to give to him the reality that 
life itself gave to him through his senses—he must not be mis¬ 
led by artificial stimulants. He must decide whether real life 
as seen in the mirror of puritanism, without embellishments, 
was superior to real life approached to as near as possible by 
the sentiments of art. He began to realize now—possibly his 
first glimpse of the fact—that prosaic protestanism was losing 
ground in the nineteenth century, and through art stimulation 
the Catholic church was regaining itself largely through this 
appeal made to the learned and ignorant alike in their desire 
to know things through the medium of their senses. Cristoforo 
saw that Ernest was in deep meditation over these conflicting 
emotions which were passing and re-passing in his mind, and 
quickly resumed putting the few finishing touches to the last 
of the panels, ready to continue his story when Ernest should 
suddenly recall himself to life again. This came in a few” 
moments when, after observing Cristoforo at work, he said 
simply, “Pardon me for my apparent disinterestedness, but the 
music was too much for me, coming with the mood in which I 
was reflecting at your stories of St. Francis. I shall be glad to 
have you continue if you wish to do so, or we can put it off 
until another day.” 

“O, let’s go on with it; I never get tired of telling the 
story, especially now that the grace of God has permitted me 
to use my talents as an artist in creating these panels. When 
we paused at the third panel we had seen Francis as a mendi¬ 
cant, but the thought of a great religious order was not as yet 

[78] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


bom in him. Now we approach the consummation of the plan 
of God as suggested to him at Spoleto, and gradually one by 
one, both rich and poor, wise and simple, came to him with an 
expressed desire on their lips that they were willing to forsake 
all and follow him in lives of poverty and self-abnegation. 

“The Very Little Brothers of Poverty they began to be 
called, and as Francis had received authority from Pope Inno¬ 
cent III to preach certain things, the basilica of Assisi could 
not hold the crowds which came to hear him. 

“My fourth panel, to which we now turn, relates a scene 
in the town of Gubbio which it seems was harrassed by the 
fear of a wolf that dwelt in the neighboring woods. He became 
very fierce when he was driven to the desperation of hunger. 
Mothers were afraid for the lives of their children. St. Francis 
visited the little town, and of course became aware of the per¬ 
plexity of the women about the wolf, and he said that the 
people as well as the wolf were to blame. The wolf had never 
known about Christ and was only acting as wolves must when 
they are hungry. The people had not thought of him as a 
creature of God and made him a friend. This St. Francis 
determined to do, and reasoned with the animal. Making the 
sign of the cross, he started across the field towards the wood 
and the wolf rushed forth to devour him. Again making the 
sign of the cross, he said: ‘Brother Wolf, I command thee do 
no harm to me or anyone.’ Upon hearing this, the wolf lay 
down lamblike at the feet of St. Francis. Thereupon the wolf 
was delivered an admonition to repent of his actions and 
become friendly with the people in town, who would feed him 
when hungry and treat him kindly always. You will notice in 
the panel the conciliatory attitude of the wolf, with his tail 
swinging like a pleased dog’s as St. Francis bends over him, 
with both hands gently stroking his neck and back and telling 
him of the proposed compromise. 

“St. Francis is still barefooted, but wears a little skull cap 
with a dark fringe about the edge, and his only other garment 
is the coarse peasant’s blouse or cloak, which reaches the entire 
length of his body and limbs. The populace can be seen in the 
distance watching the proceedings in places of safety. The 
wolf, who had been guilty of no criminal intent, but acted like 
a human being when he became so hungry that he must get 

[79] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


something to eat one way or another, readily consented to a 
mutual bargain, and in token of his sincerity gave his paw to 
St. Francis that they might shake for good faith. He now 
followed St. Francis to the village, where he again acquisced 
by giving his paw and following like a docile believer wherever 
his brother was wont to go. The story concludes that the wolf 
ever afterwards was kindly treated, and went about the village 
and played with the children as a great dog might have done.” 

“What is your mental attitude towards a story like that,” 
asked Ernest. He himself had not been taught to believe in 
miracles excepting those attributed to Christ and during the 
times of the Old Testament. 

“I can answer your question best,” replied Cristoforo, “by 
saying that your acceptance of it, and mine, represent the exact 
difference between your church and mine. It is not difficult 
for us to accept an incident like this without much surprise, 
for we have that exact confidence in God that reasons in the 
simple way of receiving anything which comes to us with the 
seal of authority attached to it. Ours is not to reason why, or 
find difficulties. If the Creator uses circumstances like these to 
accomplish his ends, why should we, the created, take excep¬ 
tions to them ? In any event, your faith limits itself to the first 
century and before; ours comes down for many hundreds of 
years later, and if God stopped that method of revealing him¬ 
self and chose others, that is His own exclusive right, and we 
acquiesce in it unquestioningly. I think this is a fair statement 
of the members of the Catholic church: They are good sol¬ 
diers and obey the vicars of Christ without asking why or 
wherefore.” 

Ernest was not satisfied with this answer, and said: “If 
you, as an individual, have doubts of the reliability of such an 
episode, what is your answer to yourself?” Answer: “My 
own personal opinion has no weight with the acceptance by my 
church of the revelations of God. How can I—merely the 
created—doubt my God, or His representatives delegated on 
earth to make known his wishes. I simply cannot have any 
private opinions of my own, if they become overpowering I 
must make confession of them as sins and be absolved. This 
absolution quiets my mind and I have renewed faith to believe.” 

To Ernest this reply was not any more satisfactory than 

[80] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


the former, and he thought to himself: “All mind must be 
created mind, or God’s mind, given to me for a purpose. Mind 
develops through thinking, as any organ will develop through 
use. If the thinking of the individual mind is to come to a 
stop at a certain point and then proceed on the basis of accept¬ 
ing illogical conclusions, how can one maintain his individuality 
and prevent becoming part of a great mass of mediocrity in 
intellect ? After all, was that not the very thing to which sup¬ 
pressed individuality led? And if he was beginning to find 
fault with it because of the miracles of the first century, how 
much more could he have reason to object to mass thinking 
which followed down through the twelve or fifteen succeeding 
centuries ? While he felt willing to go with Cristoforo in cer¬ 
tain directions in the life and convictions of St. Francis, he did 
not feel at all clear on the story of the wolf of Gubbio. How¬ 
ever, he and Cristoforo passed this by without further discus¬ 
sion as they turned to a consideration of the fifth panel. 

“This one introduces the factor of woman into the life 
and work of St. Francis. Before him stand Santa Clara and 
her sister, dressed in the long gray robes of nuns, with the neck 
and head coiffure of white. Sister Clara with the blue gar¬ 
ment covering the head and flowing down to the half of the 
figure, the other with the one in white; their feet bare, their 
faces and hands almost colorless. They bear a blue pitcher of 
milk and a little bread to St. Francis to where he sits on a hard 
bench without a back, leaning against the wall. The familiar 
reddish brown robe, the skull cap with the fringe and the bare 
feet are all there as he waits in humility for the meager meal. 
Some of his friends, the doves, are flying about in the cloister 
where he sits and seem absolutely at home and unafraid; and 
here and there are potted flowering plants, brilliant with their 
blossoms. We cannot know their fragrance, but can sense that 
it is there and, too, a brilliant light from the sun of the out¬ 
side world. Again solid colors everywhere, making for a lus¬ 
cious sense of peace and simple joy. A few years before a 
young girl named Clara had heard him preach in the Cathedral 
of Assisi. She was the daughter of a rich and noble family, 
and in the ecstasy of the moment vowed to devote her life also 
to the work advocated by St. Francis. So followed the female 
Order of which Clara and her sister were the initiators. To 

[81] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


these two branches of a distinctly defined and rapidly growing 
body of enthusiasts there was added later a third one of those 
who could still go on with their worldly vocations and who con¬ 
tributed liberally to the support of the poor and dependent in 
their communities, of which there always appeared to be an 
increasing number. They were also arrayed against feuda¬ 
lists wars and the different armed conflicts which occurred 
between the inhabitants of various towns and cities. Guelphs 
and Ghibellines laid down their centuries’ long animosities and 
could not comprehend that their seemingly eternal conflicts 
were at an end. 

“Thus the Franciscan movement grew apace with increas¬ 
ing honor to St. Francis which he took calmly and with an 
absolute indifference to the glory and power given into his 
hands to use wisely or dangerously, as he chose. Through all 
of these experiences he never wavered from his one idea of 
love and peace for all, which was the foundation upon which 
he erected his magnificent structure. God honored him in a 
few years by the especial marks of the stigmata, so that he 
bore upon his hands and feet the imprints of the nails of 
Christ upon the cross and the bleeding wound in the side from 
which his blood flowed. This dispensation from on high more 
than ever marked him in the eyes of the multitude as the 
favored one. He died with the smile of an ineffable peace on 
his face at the age of forty-five years, and two years later 
was declared to be a saint of the holy Catholic Church.” 

As Cristoforo’s voice ceased its narration the shadows of 
the evening twilight were falling, and through the windows 
came the slanting rays of the setting sun gorgeously sur¬ 
rounded by the tribute-paying clouds with the mingling colors 
of a rainbow. The western sky was a molten sea, dotted here 
and there by islands and mountains in an ever changing con¬ 
tour. All this brought to their eyes the faraway vision of the 
homeland to which St. Francis had passed in his voyage of the 
eternal life. They stood transfixed by the lurid beauty of this 
heavenly masterpiece which it was impossible for any artist 
to catch and transplant from its natural soil. In it all was the 
tragic beauty of things, and also the potent fact that life is an 
ever-changing kaleidoscope, assuming its newly acquired forms 
at every moment and giving glory and honor to the unique and 

[ 82 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


unusal expressions which from time to time make themselves 
obvious. 

This in the flesh was St. Francis and the death of the 
day, in all its colorful painting, was the emblem of his life, 
the memory of which would come and go as these twilights 
come and go throughout all remaining time. 

So the friends parted; Cristoforo to go to his devotions 
of the early evening, Ernest to the quiet of his room that he 
might analyze and classify all of the emotions and impressions 
which had rushed like overwhelming caravans across the track¬ 
less desert of his uncertain mind. He had certainly got what 
he went for—and a lot more—now he must assimiliate and 
apply it in a practical way as a part of his education. 
******** 

He was fully aware of what the astute mind of Rev. 
Dodson would think of all this when he called to thank him 
for the pleasure he had experienced in his visit to the missions. 
He, of course, would narrate the episode with Cristoforo in 
the parish house. A few days’ consideration had settled in 
Ernest’s mind several things rather definitely, and when he 
met the pastor he would try him out and see what he thought 
of these conclusions. The Baptist mind was one which Ernest 
was familiar; that of Cristoforo the opposite, but he could 
not see any particular difference in the method by which they 
arrived at the basis of their belief. God’s word was the reve- 
lator—the revelation was differently interpreted by differing 
groups of eyes. These eyes were of the group down to the 
time of Luther and then separated into two groups, and these 
in turn split up into almost infinitesimal parts, although Cris- 
toforo’s group possessed the greatest cohesion. 

Ernest could see the dwindling influence of Luther in the 
still further wastage of his group by the inroads of an intel¬ 
lectual unitarianism, which was merely a respectable sort of 
a bypath for the progressive minds to find a temporary lodg¬ 
ment, on their way to the absolute dissipation of any definite 
ideas about theology of the kind which had saved the world 
from times immemorial. As the mind of man advanced in 
knowledge the idea of God as a positive force retreated and 
became shadowy, and less susceptible of analysis. Then people 
began to talk somewhat vaguely about a first cause, or a posi- 

[ 83 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


tive force in the Universe which had lost the shape of a man 
of gigantic proportions and the white hair of a tremendous 
age who talked by tables of stone, and in dreams and visions 
to those in the world through whom he wished to communi¬ 
cate. The one great subject now which occupied Ernest’s 
mind and which must be settled in order to adjust harmoni¬ 
ously the other conclusion to which he had arrived, was that 
of immortality—or the proper conception of a future life. He 
even felt that the whole proposition rested rather positively 
on this comer stone. As he thought back to his schooldays 
he remembered that the Greeks were rather sure of the places 
of heaven for their gods and the abode of the dead for mortals 
who dwelt there in happiness or misery at the pleasure of these 
immortal gods. 

The Jews were much less positive, and certainly almost 
entirely uninterested in anything but the present life which 
was regulated by the great God—Yahveh. Strange that the 
heathen Greeks should have such a very much more definite 
scheme for the future than the Jews who were the especially 
chosen people, but evidently with nothing more than an 
earthly mission and that a very uncertain one. He could not 
reconcile all of this ancient indifference in another life to the 
very intense interest which the early Christians took in the 
subject. One of them going so far as to say under the inspira¬ 
tion of God: “If Christ be not risen then is our preaching 
vain.” In fact, the resurrection and ascension into a heaven 
which was opened, revealing God and His angels, was the 
cornerstone of the new religion and the one thing, with mira¬ 
cles, was the basis of its rapidly growing success. To him now 
there must be some adequate conception of just what was the 
purpose of this eternal life for which Christ died for which 
all acepting it might be saved. This was indeed a large sub¬ 
ject, and he felt at this juncture he must take up the argu¬ 
ment with the Baptist minister and see at what port they 
might arrive. So he concluded he would start out that very 
afternoon and go to the study in the church where he was 
very sure he would find his man busy on his Sunday sermon. 
Not to his surprise he found him with a very preoccupied 
air, but nevertheless glad to see him as though the problem 
in his mind was too deep for him to solve and he required 

[ 84 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


stimulation to bring it around to a satisfactory point of view. 

“Ah, Wilmerding, you are welcome indeed. I need help in 
several instances and I am sure you are the one to assist in 
digging the way out. I intend to preach next Sunday morn¬ 
ing from the text of St. Paul found in 1st Corinthians, XVth 
chapter and 12th verse: ‘Now if Christ be preached that he 
rose from the dead, how say some among you that there is no 
resurrection of the dead?’ ” 

Ernest had been somewhat chilled by the cheerlessness of 
the place as he entered. The room bare of everything that 
signified comfort was austere enough, and the minister’s face 
was stern and uncompromising, as though he fought some 
internal, mental enemy who had the assurance to provoke a 
conflict with him just at the wrong time. All the surround¬ 
ings were congenial to a cold Baptist puritanism of the year 
1644, when it first saw light in Old England. In fact, the 
world had not moved for the minister since that year, and 
this fact was enough to convince anybody of the permanence 
of its theology. The study was carpetless, the desk, and two 
or three chairs of an uncertain vintage. On the dusty, white¬ 
washed walls hung a picture of the Baptist Theological Semin¬ 
ary at Greenville, South Carolina, in which the pastor had 
gotten what training he possessed, during the years of the 
Civil War. Another of John Bunyan, one of the first Baptists, 
and of Charles Henry Spurgeon, a living leader preaching in 
London. These three constituted all of the visible inspira¬ 
tion upon which the eyes of the Rev. Dodson might rest as 
he paused from time to time to ruminate on the sermon for 
which he was making notes. 

Of books he had a miserable few, all in old bindings which 
suggested the musty ideas of men of bygone generations. This 
was Dodson, through and through. The ideas first established 
were the everlasting and unchangeable ones, no baptism except 
by immersion, as was done in the sacred waters of Jordan, so 
many centuries ago! Just now he was impatient at his text, 
for did not St. Paul state that even then there were some of 
the brethren who said: “There was no resurrection of the 
dead.” Drat these unbelievers, or half-and-half believers, why 
should there be any dis-belief amongst Christians, and espe¬ 
cially amongst the early ones in the most important founda- 

[85] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


tion stone of their religion; the resurrection of the dead ? 

“What do you think of this, Wilmerding? You have been 
in the midst of revival work in Chicago now for the past five 
years or more, there is no question is there, about anything 
as important as this?” 

Ernest was a little nonplussed as to what to answer. He 
had observed the advance of modern criticism which in great 
centers like Chicago was slowly but surely destroying the faith 
of many in the physical resurrection, and of a certain type of 
immortality itself, but he was free to say in answer to the 
question that revivalists of the type of Moody and Sankey 
stood firmly by the old conception of these subjects and were 
very positive of a lake of real fire and brimstone having been 
prepared for the dying unbelievers. He could solace the min¬ 
ister by saying this, but he felt that his own Damascus Road 
had been the voice of the god of intellect calling him back to 
the paths of logic and therefore he could not in honesty con¬ 
tinue without saying so. The present thought seemed to be 
that Jesus did not really rise excepting in the over extended 
imaginations of a lot of his followers, and what he was sup¬ 
posed to have said on the subject he did not say at all, but the 
words were subsequently put into his mouth by those who 
“made up” the gospels and the New Testament, long after he 
had passed away. 

This was too much for the Rev. Dodson. He rose from 
his chair and paced up and down as though in the mental 
agony of despair. Ernest had great sympathy for a thoroughly 
sincere man who absolutely saw the earth open and swallow 
up the doubters and unbelievers in what he considered was 
“the faith once delivered to the saints.” 

“What you say breaks my heart. I feel that thousands like 
me have given, and are giving, their best blood to hold fast the 
things which have always anchored the world, but for the past 
generation there seems to be a breaking away amongst the 
learned and the intellectuals from the absolute to what is 
vague and uncertain. I have just had an experience with a 
Mr. Breckinridge from Louisville, who is spending a few 
weeks here, and he speaks in the same way. I tell you the 
world will lose all of its conceptions of morality, and of what 
is right and wrong if this trend of thought is allowed to con- 

[86] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


tinue. They talk now of a process of evolution which dis¬ 
places God as a creator, and by this kind of reasoning they 
are trying to discredit the miracles and, of course, the hope 
in a resurrection and future life which is the very pillar of 
our faith. What will the great masses do if they lose fear in 
their hearts? This is the one thing which holds them in sub¬ 
jection—and which always has—this fear of everlasting pun¬ 
ishment. I tell you the men who are encouraging this kind of 
thing little know what floodgates of wilfulness and anarchy 
they are opening up when they teach independent thinking.” 

“My eyes are opening to the great possibilities of the 
broader conception of the privileges of the multitude,” said 
Ernest. “My own feelings now are that eternal truths are 
inviolable—if they are truths. If the Christian religion, or any 
religion, and their beliefs as accepted are the truth, nothing 
can shake or disestablish them; if they are the product simply 
of men’s minds developed in the old ages of superstition and 
doubt, the quicker they fall apart of their weakness the better. 
The great masses today seem to toil on unrequited save for 
the promises of a greater future made possible by themselves 
through their growing intelligence and through the downfall 
of much for which the master world has stood and of which 
it has been the guiding hand. 

“When a mental slave slips out into a growing freedom of 
thought, and action as wide as the world itself, and which gives 
a spirit of manhood and godhood that it has not known before 
but in whose companionship one may walk with a kingly feel¬ 
ing of redemption from a sordid and selfish past, the exhilara¬ 
tion of release from the many centuries’ old ties makes him 
a youth again, and his mind becomes fresh and green like the 
joy of an opening spring. I wish I might say something which 
would be of comfort to you, Mr. Dodson, for my eyes have 
never been opened as they are now, and I must, in order to 
be honest with myself, confess to you that this great question 
of eternal life has entirely lost its interest for me. I cannot 
conceive what it means, or ever did mean. Because of it I 
have felt the misty haze of sleep and been unconscious of the 
duller senses it was creating. But at last I realize its nar¬ 
cotizing results on the living men and women about me and 
the institutions they have endowed and of which they have 

[87] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


been a part. To me the perfection or weakness of the vessel 
which holds the seeds of liberty of mind and action, is insig¬ 
nificant. If this or that expression of humanity bears but a 
flickering torch which holds the essence of truth, I welcome it 
and will read by its light all the tenets of freedom for which 
it professes to stand. Today I cannot clasp your hand, Brother 
Dodson, over the doctrines of the Baptist Church; neither can 
I with Brother Cristoforo, whom I met at San Fernando, 
over those of the Catholic Church; but we can all join hands 
in a religion for humanity which signifies the greatest good 
in this life for the greatest number wherever they may be, and 
if that will not fit us for eternity, I shall not care to know what 
immortality is.” 

“My dear young brother, I shall go before God in constant 
prayer that He may forgive you, for you know not what you 
do.” And with this they parted, each in evident distress and 
discontent, for the need of both was equally great for the 
comfort that comes from the bonds of human friendship. 


[88] 


CHAPTER V 


Colored Stars 

The old order of things had passed way! And the new 
world which was dawning in Ernest’s eyes was one of wond¬ 
rous beauty and opportunity. How circumscribed he felt him¬ 
self to be—more than ever now a life of business and money 
getting seemed distasteful and unworthy. Yet he was on the 
threshold of life and all it had seemed to have in store for 
him was to follow in the footsteps of a world of selfishness 
and self-aggrandizement. This he saw on every hand—only 
here and there men like Dodson and Cristoforo, who had well 
defined missions in life, into which the personal equation did 
not enter in so far as riches in money was concerned. 

And still the acceptance of their lives in entirety would 
be manifestly distasteful to him, as the convictions which he 
had heretofore held were now replaced by the great colored 
stars of another conception of the bigness and dignity of life, 
which had come to him as in the clearing of the sky from a 
great storm. One might believe that a young man of nineteen 
had decided rather hastily and unadvisedly in a very important 
matter and would be likely to have a reaction from these newer 
things which were now come as apparent verities. One must 
not forget the leaven which had been working in him as the 
result of the contact of his mind with that of Alice Gardner. 
This was of deep import. Some natures, too, are gifted with 
a quick decision when the perceptions have finally brought 
the picture into the full view of a questioning mind. 

Ernest was quite sure he was through with the intoler¬ 
ance of puritanism, and he was equally sure that emotionalism 
of some kind must play a leading part in his life of the future. 
The thing to be solved was the point of direction which this 
emotionalism must take. Protestantism in which he had been 
absorbed all his life give him none excepting as a factor in 
seeking this personal salvation for himself or others which he 
now felt constrained to think was the highest type of individual 

[89] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


selfishness. He abhorred the egotism which would fill a heaven 
forever with the possessors of this distinctive quality. Catholi¬ 
cism was also intolerant, but much more democratic, but not 
with the democracy of high types of mentality. 

After he had thoroughly reviewed the life of St. Francis 
he saw much that was noble in his character, but also he saw a 
man susceptible to impressions which were not genuine. How¬ 
ever, he could forgive much of that in a life of faith based 
on emotionalism. His life must be grounded in the same way, 
but with a different object in view. His medium of expression 
would be through the eyes of the artist and not through those 
of a mendicant. To him beggary was contemptible and repre¬ 
sented dependence on others. He was sure that if men would 
only learn to depend on their own resources there would be 
less need for gods, or intermediaries of any kind. 

Why should full blooded men and women go to any inter¬ 
mediary in what is called a confessional, and lay bare their 
hearts to some human being like themselves ? Then the words 
of the anonymous writer of the book he had been reading 
came back to him with a telling force: “Slavery of the mind 
relaxes as the old superstitions fall away one by one and lend 
courage and self-reliance to the individual.” Courage and self- 
reliance were the colored stars in the galaxy of his ecstatic 
heavens, and he would now go forth clad in the armor of 
self-assertion and find his life, although just now he knew 
not how or where. That there was a feeling of unrest in 
the air he had realized by his observations, and this had been 
increasing as the development of industry quickened. A new 
era was opening in the life of mankind, which would rapidly 
increase his privileges if he possessed the opportunity to obtain 
them, or excite his envy and malice towards the more favored 
ones if he was denied them. No religion as now constituted 
would change things to prevent a surely approaching crisis. 
Just what this crisis would resolve itself into he could not 
determine. Certainly its demand would be for something more 
immediate than personal salvation. 

In San Antonio he thought he had now exhausted all the 
resources of information and experience which were likely to 
be of help to him in fixing his determination; but he knew he 
must remain here for a month or more to complete the physical 

[90] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


upbuilding which would be absolutely required for any future 
of the kind he had set his mind on discovering. Sometimes 
the wish is father to the consummation and events rapidly fol¬ 
lowed which almost forced him to believe that some unknown 
and unseen power had become his especial mentor and was 
leading him on to the light of a resplendent day. 

It was one of his little duties to visit the postoffice every 
morning to receive the mail for all of the members of the 
Jarvis house family and, one day, a week or so after he had 
visited Mr. Dodson in his study, he was the recipient of two 
letters which promised to be interesting. He hurried back to 
the house to make his delivery to the others and then made 
himself comfortable in the hammock on the veranda to read 
his communications from the outside world. He had not the 
slightest suspicion of the contents of these letters, nor that 
what they imparted would entirely change his plans for the 
future and place him in possession of the key for which he 
had been so ardently and curiously seeking. One was a letter 
containing the keenest disappointment—the other one of the 
most rejuvenating hopes. 

One of them bore the postmark of Chicago and was in 
the well known handwriting of Alice Gardner; the other, that 
of a stranger and with the inscription in the upper left-hand 
comer of the envelope, Blake Bros. & Co., Bankers, 38 State 
street, Boston, Massachusetts (sent to his Chicago address 
originally and forwarded to San Antonio). He was terribly 
curious about the contents of the latter, but he could not resist 
the desire to open and read the letter from Alice first. 

Chicago, 

February 20, 1879. 

Dear Ernest: 

This is not in answer to your last letter but as I have the 
most wonderful news I can’t wait longer to let you know what 
has happened to me. You wrote me about the new life that 
is coming towards you and how it fills you with such enthu¬ 
siasm that you can hardly restrain yourself from shouting it 
out to everyone you meet on the street. I feel the same way. 
You remember last fall when I was at Grandmother’s, in Mas¬ 
sachusetts, I frequently went into Boston. One day when I 

[91] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


was there I went with Polly Crosby over to the Conservatory 
of Music and was introduced by her to the head of the piano 
department. We stayed around there all the afternoon playing 
over some of the latest music and I saw that the teacher was 
very much interested in my work, and afterwards comple¬ 
mented me on my excellent technique and brilliancy of execu¬ 
tion. I told her I was a pupil of Seeboeck’s, who excelled in 
the interpretation of Chopin, then being acknowledged as one 
of the great composers of modern times. She said she would 
like to have me on her staff. I felt flattered, of course, and 
thanking her for the expression of appreciation, went away 
and thought no more about it. Judge of my surprise! I have 
just received a most cordial invitation to come to Boston— 
make the Conservatory my home, if I wish, and enter the 
teaching staff for the piano. This is an opportunity I must 
not miss; it will bring me in contact with all that is newest 
and best in the life of music—which is my soul, you know. As 
long as I am not needed at home and have my grandmother 
and auntie so near at hand—in fact, I can go back and forth 
every day if I choose—I can see no reason why I should not 
take the next train and go. O, what a glorious thing it is to be 
alive! To have youth, and courage, and ambition; to feel that 
after all one can have the chance to do something worth while. 
What noted personages we shall both become ! I can’t imagine 
to what heights the wings of your Pegasus may carry you, but 
the eeries to my skies are hidden in the depths of the bluest of 
mists and I hope to find you there, too, when I arrive. Let us 
strive to live largely, take great draughts of the intoxicating 
breath of the ozone of opportunity and not rest until we 
become masters of the profession which lies nearest to our 
hearts. We can, each of us, become inspirers to the other in 
the race for this kind of a success. I am greatly hoping that 
you may soon formulate your own plan and find the way to 
enter into it, and it is my sincerest wish that it be not into the 
business world that you find your way inclined. I could hope 
that even in San Antonio you might make the acquaintance 
of some man of age and experience in life in a large way, to 
whom you might go for advice. You have had plenty of 
spiritual associates and I think now that your mind is pretty 
well cleared of the cobwebs of theology, and you need another 

[92] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


kind of adviser. I caution you to find one before you go very 
much farther. 

I know you will rejoice with me in my decision, and 
we can talk together through the mails just as often as we 
desire to. 

* * * * 

Ernest was dumbfounded. If an earthquake had opened 
the garden before his feet and swallowed up the faces of all 
the beautiful, inanimate objects at which he was now gazing 
in a mood of abject despondency, he could not have been more 
surprised at this determination of all his dreams and fancies 
for an almost immediate future with Alice Gardner. Here 
he was—suddenly and ruthlessly forsaken by his commanding 
general and left to shift for himself. He fancied he heard an 
echo of a silvery voice in the trees that was saying: “Lesson 
No. 4, Ernest; self-reliance is the crowning jewel of life, wear 
it as a glittering gem on your finger so that it may ever be in 
your rememberance.” 

Then he pulled himself together as though ashamed—both 
because of the womanhood of the girl, even younger than him¬ 
self, who was ready and anxious to go out into the world and 
fight a battle—that she had confidence enough in herself to 
know she would win. And then he was ashamed, too, because 
of the resolution he had made for himself—to enter the battle 
and fight through to a finish, in some way as yet unrevealed, 
but the draperies of which would soon fall away, leaving an 
open road stretching out before him, the silvery whiteness 
of which led into the unwritten history of the ecstatic years to 
come. It was then the familiar words of his old church song 
rang in his ears: 

“Dare to be a Daniel , 

Dare to stand alone; 

Dare to have a purpose true — 

Dare to make it known ” 

Here was an old, tried friend with a new voice and it 
stirred his enthusiasm to feel the growing strength of confi¬ 
dence. But there was this other letter in his hand, as yet 
unopened, to which he now turned. It read as follows: 

[93] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


Mr. Ernest Wilmerding, 

283 Garden City Boul., 

Chicago, Illinois. 

Dear Sir: 

It becomes our duty and privilege to inform you that 
under the will of your recently deceased grandfather, Samuel 
Wetherbee, of Charlestown, New Hampshire, all of his estate, 
both personal and real, amounting approximately to twenty- 
five thousand dollars, has been left in trust with us for your 
benefit. The will recently opened recites that should your 
grandmother survive him, the income from this property 
should go to her while she lives, and upon her death, which has 
already occurred, the estate in its entirety should revert to 
you, subject only to the one provision that the income only 
shall be paid to you until you have reached the age of thirty 
years, at which time our trust shall cease and you will be 
entitled to receive the principal also. It is our duty to keep the 
money of the estate invested in such securities as we believe 
in our judgment to be safe and conservative. We shall at the 
first opportunity dispose of the real estate and personal effects 
and invest the proceeds to your best advantage. 

It is our opinion that the annual income to be derived 
when this money shall have been fully invested to be between 
twelve and fifteen hundred dollars per annum. 

We shall always be at your service to command. 

Yours truly, 

Blake Bros. & Co. 

Boston, February 18, 1879. 

Ernest could not believe what his eyes told his senses and 
he eagerly read the letter through again, and when he realized 
that he was facing a real situation he gave vent to the alter¬ 
nate paroxysms of sorrow and joy which welled up within 
him in a watery flood of tears. His dear old grandfather 
whom he had last seen in 1876, when he visited the Centennial, 
and who then put his arms around him and said how proud 
he was of his grandson, and spoke of his desire that he should 
become a useful man in the city in which he lived. “Don’t 
live entirely for yourself, Ernest,” he said, “there are plenty 
to do this, but single out some occupation which will give 
service to humanity, for there is an open field which you will 

[94] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


find largely unoccupied. There is where you may attain the 
full measure of manhood—getting the joy and happiness out 
of life which comes from an unselfish devotion to ideals. I do 
not know what talents you may have, but I feel sure that in 
you lies sleeping now some great spirit of devotion to the 
finer things of life. This will rouse itself at the proper time 
and take possession of your mind and body, filling them with 
the creative joy that excels any other sensation.” 

These words of his grandfather recurred to him now, for 
he saw the deep seated reason of the bequest made to him 
because of the far-seeing eye of the old man and he felt at 
once that now he had the sacred trust of a responsibility to 
live up to . Could this have come to him at a more oppor¬ 
tune time? And with it too, the inspiration of the letter from 
Alice Gardner? With this added thought there came another 
welling up of the emotions which he could not control, and 
ashamed to exhibit his apparent weakness to the others who 
would not understand, he quickly took his cap and started 
off to find his favored seat in the shade at San Pedro Park. 
He felt that there he could think it all out by himself. 

Somehow the hot sun caused him to lie down in the grass 
in the shade, when he arrived, and putting his cap under his 
head, he lay there looking up into the blue sky and imagining 
how he would start things when he was well enough to leave 
San Antonio and go home again. He became drowsy and 
finally lost himself in sleep, to dream strangely about his being 
in Chicago and walking by a bank in the window of which was 
an open barrel with its head toward the window into which 
he gazed. The barrel seemed to be nearly filled with bright 
new, shining gold pieces, with a scoop, like a sugar scoop, 
lying amongst them, and a painted sign inviting passersby to 
come in and take away as much of the gold as they desired. 
He could not understand why there was not a great, pushing 
crowd trying to get the first chance at the scoop, but there was 
no one who even stopped to give a second look at it. 

Well, he would, because he knew the possession of the 
glittering eagles would enable him to live the life of freedom 
for which, somehow or other, the dream told him he was 
searching. So in he went, but no one paid any attention to 
him as he took out a scoop full of the gold pieces, and then 

[95] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


he noticed that strewn amongst the gold were a lot of brilliant 
diamonds and other rare stones which also were as freely given 
as the gold. He was amazed at all this, and before taking 
away as much as he could carry, thought he would ask the 
banker to explain the unusual situation the like of which he 
had never before known. 

The banker looked at him as surprised as he had been at 
seeing the window full of gold and jewels and smiled as though 
he thought he was being addressed by one mentally unsound. 

“You must be crazy, young man; there is no such thing in 
the window. If you can find it you are certainly welcome to 
all you can carry away with you.” 

Ernest was terribly sure of himself, and at once took an 
old newspaper which was lying on one of the desks and filled 
it with several scoopsfull of the treasure and thanking the 
banker, passed out into the street, with the bundle tightly 
pressed under his arm. As he passed the alleyway near the 
bank he was roughly seized by someone from behind who was 
evidently bent on getting the package away from him, but 
Ernest fought desperately to retain it. Just as he felt that the 
prize was slipping away from him he became aware of some¬ 
thing which resembled the agile legs of a scotch terrier, danc¬ 
ing about with his teeth fixed in the cloth cap underneath his 
head where he lay on the grass. He suddenly awoke to the 
fact that his grandfather’s legacy had gone to his head and 
he was the victim of a nightmare in the daylight of San Pedro 
Park. 

How glad he was when he knew it was all a dream and 
he felt in his pocket to make sure that the letter was there and 
that it was not a dream also. Then he heard a hearty “ha, ha,” 
from someone sitting on the bench and a commanding voice 
admonishing: “Let go, Plato, come back here and lie down. 
Don’t you know what an impolite dog you are ? Behave your¬ 
self like a gentleman!” At this the bearer of the immortal 
name of Plato dropped the cap and jumped up on the seat, 
snuggling down, but with a look in his sparkling eyes as if to 
say: “Why can’t a dog have a little fun when he gets a 
chance?” The master soothed him with a few friendly pats, 
and said to Ernest, who was now thoroughly awake to the 
humor of the situation and equally delighted that his dream 

[96] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


was not a reality: “You must forgive Plato; his philosophy 
gets the better of him once in a while, and he has a craze to 
shake things about a bit. I try to teach him a philosopher’s 
habits but the dog in him will assert itself, notwithstanding.” 

“O, I didn’t care,” said Ernest, “I was having a rather 
unpleasant dream, anyway, and was glad to get away from it.” 
At this he arose and put on his cap, after adjusting it to 
its proper shape, and sat down on the settee with the man 
and his dog. The latter was friendly enough then, and soon 
cemented the acquaintanceship of the other two, as he looked 
from one to the other, expecting to have something thrown 
for which he might jump and run, to bring it back again. As 
this was not forthcoming he settled down, putting his nose 
between his paws as if to leave the responsibility of managing 
the work of the world with his two companions while he 
took a nap. 

“How unphilosophical Plato is, after all,” said the man; 
“he goes quickly and unconcernedly to sleep as though there 
were no further problems for him to consider and determine 
for the better understanding of man.” 

Ernest had concluded that his companion, like himself, 
was a stranger in San Antonio and while he had some of the 
Southern accent, it was not so perceptible but what one might 
realize that he was a well-traveled man, used to the ways of 
the world and a person of unusual intelligence and education. 
The fact that his dog was dubbed “Plato” and spoken to as 
though he might have philosophic inclinations, showed Ernest 
that he would find a few things, at least, in common, to talk 
with him about if the stranger was so inclined. 

It happened that he was more than so inclined. In fact, 
a few weeks’ stay in San Antonio had convinced him that it 
was not a long process to absorb all of the knowledge and 
intelligence which the place possessed, and even then he had 
not added anything very considerable to his own already 
extended culture obtained through a life of study and travel. 
He saw, too, at once that Ernest did not belong there but like 
himself, was from some larger center and his accent denoted 
the North, probably Chicago, so he was not averse to making 
his acquaintance although there was a difference of twenty 
years or more in their ages. It did not take long for the 

[97] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


younger man to ascertain that the elder was Thomas J. Breck¬ 
inridge, lawyer, from Louisville, Kentucky, and the latter was 
soon informed that the younger man was Ernest Wilmerding, 
health seeker, from Chicago, Illinois. They were mutually glad 
to make each other’s acquaintance for, if the truth be known, 
time was beginning to hang rather heavily on the hands of 
each for the lack of some stimulating interest. 

After they had talked together for some time, Ernest 
became suddenly aware of the words of Alice in the letter 
which he had just read: “I could hope that even in San 
Antonio you might make the acquaintance of some man of age 
and experience in life in a large way, to whom you might go 
for advice.” Here was his chance, and while he would not 
directly ask Mr. Breckinridge the certain things he was 
anxious to know, he would in course of his further acquaint¬ 
ance, have such discussion with him as would bring out the 
latter’s opinions and theories concerning them. Both had said 
they were in San Antonio for rest and recreation and would 
remain for ten days or two weeks longer, until the spring was 
far enough advanced in the North for them to return. The 
family of Mr. Breckinridge was abroad and had been for sev¬ 
eral years, mainly in Paris; the wife an accomplished musi¬ 
cian, the daughter, Tessa, now fourteen years old, studying 
drawing and painting at Julian’s, where she had not only made 
great progress, but as well some wonderful acquaintances, both 
with prominent artists and with many students from all over 
the world. 

“I am afraid,” said Mr. Breckinridge, “that Louisville will 
seem rather tame to my family after this extended trip abroad, 
and I am thinking seriously of removing to Chicago myself 
if they are agreeable to it, as I believe your city is on the 
threshold of a great development along the lines of Art expres¬ 
sion, and if they can make up in a certain way there what 
they lose in Louisville, this might be a very satisfactory 
arrangement. Of course they can take occasional trips to 
Paris to renew their lessons and acquaintanceships. My busi¬ 
ness interests require that I spend the most of my time in the 
United States, and as I am still a comparatively young man, 
I do not feel inclined to give them up entirely. I am awfully 
glad to have met you even in this accidental sort of way, for 

[98] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


you can undoubtedly give me some information which I need 
about Chicago, and which may be of great value to me in 
formulating my plans. By the way, I have met two rather 
interesting people here—one of whom, the Rev. Dodson, pas¬ 
tor of the Baptist Church, to whom, I’m afraid, I gave some¬ 
what of a shock when I introduced him to my own religious 
ideas, which were rather modern for his way of thinking. 
These Southern Baptists do not realize much about how the 
thought of the world is developing and changing to conform 
to realized scientific formulas and conclusions, and no sinner 
is perhaps a greater one in their eyes than he who dares to 
think a new thought which may be prejudicial to the theology 
of John Bunyan.” 

Ernest was immensely tickled within to know that some¬ 
one else besides himself had received a similar reaction to 
Pastor Dodson and his sturdy beliefs and opinions. He would 
have further conversation on some of these things when they 
should meet again and the chance was opportune for their dis¬ 
cussion. Not now, for Mr. Breckinridge was yet to tell him 
of the other person he had met who was interesting to him. 

“It was refreshing, however, to me,” resumed Mr. Breck¬ 
inridge, “to make the acquaintance of a young Jew, son of a 
rabbi, in one of the more advanced temples of Cincinnati, who 
is in a bad way from tubercular trouble and here for what help 
the climate may give him. I fear for its fatal termination, 
however, for when I saw him several days ago he was quite 
weak and emaciated. I felt great sympathy for him as he is 
one of those rare, bright, cultured young spirits who has an 
inexhaustible thirst for knowledge and a limited amount of 
physical strength with which to absorb it. His name is Leo 
Schlossmann—a little older than yourself, perhaps twenty- 
three or so—and it was his ambition to follow in the foot¬ 
steps of his father, but he now seems convinced that he will not 
long survive his present trouble. He is rather philosophical 
in his mental attitude towards everything, however, and said 
to me: ‘If I am destined to die a young man after having 
prepared myself for a life of usefulness to my people, I rejoice 
that I am a philosopher, for were I a theologian I should never 
forgive the God who brought me to the border of the promised 
land only to let me die unsatisfied.’ Noble words for a youth 

[99] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


with death staring him in the face. Astute as I am I recognize 
gladly evidences like this of a genuine character commingled 
with the pathos of despair; a melancholy of observation of the 
helplessness and hopelessness of the great masses of the world 
who have no knowledge of an inherent power to lift themselves 
above their surroundings. A few courageous voices sound out, 
here and there—just enough of them to give assurance that 
the great natural law of evolution, through the development 
of the human brain, will make humankind the greater masters 
of the future. I should like to talk with you, if you are inter¬ 
ested, at some future time on the growth of one’s individuality 
through the exercise of the imagination—the one thing which 
will develope the human brain. It is a great subject. This 
was the very thing which made the ancient Greeks the most 
cultured and progressive of peoples. However, what I would 
like to have you do is to call with me this evening to meet 
young Schlossmann. He is lonely—among strangers, and it will 
cheer him up if we spend an hour with him. He has a room 
in a private residence just off the Alamo, and we can meet in 
the Plaza at eight o’clock and go together. I had agreed to 
stay with him a while this evening and he will be expecting me. 
After you are acquainted with him, if you feel so inclined, you, 
too, can help him pass some of the lonesome hours. He is so 
intelligent that you will be amply repaid for the time you spend 
with him.” 

“I shall be very glad to go with you this evening,” said 
Ernest, “as I have no other engagement.” 

Accordingly they met at the appointed place and were 
soon in the presence of the invalid, who was indeed weak and 
thin from his severe illness. When he left Cincinnati he had 
not realized how far the ravages of the terrible scourge had 
gone, as one of the conditions of the disease is its unwarranted 
degree of hopefulness, and as he was by nature cheerful and 
of a sunny disposition, he did not anticipate but that in a few 
weeks such a climate would restore him to his usual health. 
Jewish people show marked ability to survive under adverse 
environment, probably due to the excess of mentality which 
gives them the stronger will to maintain themselves where so 
many others fail. Here he was, propped up in bed with a 
smile on his wan, pale face, showing his gratification at finding 

[100] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


that someone was thinking of his welfare. He was in much 
the same surroundings as Ernest, with a family who had an 
extra room or two for Northerners when they came to San 
Antonio for the winter. Of course a helpless young fellow 
like Leo could not get a great amount of attention, so he was 
obliged to commune largely with himself, which he was abun¬ 
dantly able to do and probably gathered much more real inspi¬ 
ration than he could possibly have gotten through the usual 
conversations with ordinary people. Luckily he had made a 
friend in Mr. Breckinridge, who was on his intellectual level 
and the one bright spot in his life came from the frequent 
visits which the latter made him. 

“I want to make you acquainted with Ernest Wilmerding, 
a young man from Chicago/’ said he by way of introduction. 
“Ernest is here on the same mission as you and already has 
been rejuvenated by his few weeks’ stay. Unfortunately I 
have only just made his acquaintance, so that much good time 
has been lost in our not having known one another sooner. 
He was introduced to me in San Pedro Park this morning by 
the great philosopher, Plato, who is my sole and almost con¬ 
stant companion.” 

This sally forced a laugh from Ernest and brought a weak 
smile to Leo’s face. They became friendly at once and each 
saw in the other the prospect of the friendship of youth, which 
is so mutually attractive. 

“Yes, your dog is certainly a friend in need,” said Ernest, 
as he related to Leo the circumstances under which the 
acquaintance was brought about. 

“It happens that because of the philosopher I was rescued 
from the danger of losing a large bundle of gold and precious 
jewels which some highwaymen were trying to take away from 
me.” Then of course Ernest was obliged to narrate his dream 
and tell the joyful news of the letter which caused him to have 
nightmare in the daytime, at which all three became quite jolly. 

Mr. Breckinridge was well pleased that he had brought 
Ernest along for he could observe Leo’s inner emotions bring 
the little smiles to his face and lighten the dark shades around 
his eyes as the evening wore along. 

Soon Mr. Breckinridge was obliged to excuse himself on 
account of letters to be written at his hotel, for posting that 

[101] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


night, and after inviting Ernest to spend the afternoon of the 
next day with him he bade them both good night and left, 
saying to Leo that he would send him a bouquet of fresh roses 
the next morning to replace those he had. 

Naturally the two young men left alone together began 
to talk of things which interested them, and it gradually and 
naturally assumed a conversation on their different religious 
experiences and what their future ambitions were. Leo’s 
father was the Rabbi of a Reformed Jewish Congregation and 
as such was the head of a radically intellectual group which 
held very advanced ideas on the social progress of the day. 

“You know,” said Leo, “of the recent movement at 
Oxford led by Arnold Toynbee, who adopted as his slogan: 
‘The welfare of the producer is as much a matter of interest 
to the consumer as the price of the product.’ I have been 
reading Ruskin and William Morris now for some time, very 
intent on absorbing their advanced ideas on the relation of art 
to life, and have become enthusiastic over the one idea, that to 
stimulate the imagination to the end of making the best expres¬ 
sion of life come through the interpretation of art, is the basis 
of the coming religion. This, I hope, will revolutionize the 
thinking of the cultured, and prepare the way for mass think¬ 
ing along the lines of whatever is best in the Catholic Church 
without its superstitions. I have wished to devote my life to 
some such new development as this, and you can realize my 
sense of helplessness at the futility of believing now that I 
shall ever be able to even make a start at it. But there it is—• 
the unborn dream of my deepest soul. It is a torch which I 
would hand to some young mind to carry on for me into the 
darkness. The Jews have the courage of prophets and mar¬ 
tyrs and a high average of intellectual ability. I had believed 
that they would have been the ones to have shown the world 
the way, but when I see the strength of conviction in such as 
Toynbee and Ruskin and Morris, together with many others 
who have just matured or are maturing in these great thoughts 
in the closing years of the nineteenth century, I know the work 
will be taken in hand by competent souls, be they Jew or Gen¬ 
tile, and the most beautiful and reasonable purposes of human 
life set free to find their way. A thousand years of darkness, 
a thousand years of superstition; why not a thousand years of 

[102] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


reason ? Old Socrates said four hundred and fifty years before 
the Christian era that philosophy should be devoted to the pur¬ 
suit of truth. I think it has been true to its mission although 
the chase has been a long one. Philosophy has built its struc¬ 
ture stone by stone in the growing thought of men in search 
of truth, and for the one purpose of revealing to man, and 
man only, his privileges and opportunities. What one is there 
but would choose the beautiful rather than the ugly if he could 
see only the beautiful from the day his eyes opened to con¬ 
sciousness? I do not know why Toynbee should have gone to 
East London to live and work amongst the unfortunates of 
White Chapel unless he had some such vision as this, and I 
believed that therein lay my opportunity to give to life this 
expression. I was writing before you came some lines in 
which I thought to picture to myself the horrible difficulties in 
which I found personal hindrances to this accomplishment. 
Read them and you will know the depths of my despair. They 
may be the last lines I shall ever write for I feel the end draw¬ 
ing near, but they tell my story/’ 

I yearn to walk alone in untried paths, 

To guide my boat in seas before unsailed; 

But Death, with puissant might 
Stands guard, that every move I make 
Shall bring me nearer to the Lethean fields. 

So I walk and sail with fettered will 
Nor could choose another way to go. 

My life's processioned, destined, cast; 

I cannot guide my boat in light of stars 
Whose orbits newt old visions bring to view; 

But in my hands 

I blindly hold the fate imperious destiny demands. 

Ernest when he finished reading these lines was silent, 
dumb at the thought of Leo, true as the reflection of a face in 
the mirror. Then he glanced at him and was startled at the 
blanched expression of his face. Evidently the strain of the 
evening and the excitement of the talk had taken his little 
strength. The giant, Despair, had gripped the mind of an 
opening life and placed the puissant might of Death on guard. 
Until now Leo had felt the hopefulness of returning home, 

[103] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


and with the financial aid of Mr. Breckinridge freely offered, 
to make a start in his life work. Now the futility of it all 
brought the flush of sudden despair and he lost his hold on 
himself, and in the consciousness of the impossibility his physi¬ 
cal weakness became his master and with a second’s alarm 
struggled for breath, but the handkerchief which he had 
quickly placed to his mouth crimsoned with the flood which 
spelled the end. Unaccustomed to a sight like this, and help¬ 
less, too, Ernest called for assistance, and taking Leo’s hand 
in his, felt the creeping chill of death, for Death it was—stand¬ 
ing guard to bring him “to the Lethean fields.” 

* * * * 

The melancholy of this unusual and unexpected event was 
a deep shock to Ernest. He had never faced death before in 
such a sense of nearness. If it had not been for the quiet 
yet serious bearing of Mr. Breckinridge throughout the two 
or three eventful days which followed, he would have almost 
lost courage. Mr. Breckinridge talked sensibly and calmly 
with him, however, concerning the circumstance, showing him 
that we must learn to expect death as much as we expect life; 
that each is a necessary and unavoidable expression of Nature, 
and each beautiful in its own way of being beautiful. He 
spoke to him of those unforgettable words of David in the 
103rd psalm: 

As for man his days are as grass, 

As a flower of the field so he flourisheth, 

For the wind passeth over and it is gone 
And the place thereof shall know it no more. 

“The fact of a personality is like a flower of the field, 
expressing its own individual beauty and then passing on that 
others may function.” 

The wonderful thing about Leo was that he had estaB- 
lished a memorial in the minds of both Ernest and Mr. Breck¬ 
inridge which would not perish, but bear fruit, as Toynbee’s 
idea was bearing fruit. Now scarcely two years since the 
latter had gone to White Chapel amongst the dregs of the 
manifold city, but the seed of a great reaching out of the 
human for the human had been planted. No one could pre- 

[104] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


diet how far reaching it would be—“What a great matter a 
little fire kindleth”—and in Leo’s enthusiasm for a religion 
based on the use of the imagination was the germ, too, of a 
sublime conception of what art could do in the life of man. 
The reason why Mr. Breckinridge had spoken to Ernest, saying 
that he would like to talk with him about the growth of the 
human brain through the development of the imagination, was 
that he and Leo had been working on a plan by which a start 
for Leo could be made, when he returned to Cincinnati, to put 
into practice the ideas with which his mind had become preg¬ 
nant and which found expression in a desire to get close to 
those who appealed to his sensitive nature. Now Leo had 
unexpectedly given place to Ernest and in him he saw the pos¬ 
sibility of practical workmanship. But Ernest was a stranger 
to him—he knew nothing about his education, qualifications 
of mind or home environment; while of Leo he knew every¬ 
thing. With his keen perceptive powers he could soon form¬ 
ulate an opinion. 

Mr. Breckinridge had inherited great wealth and one of 
his reasons for desiring to make Chicago his home was to seek 
a field where he could put to practical demonstration the 
theories which had been growing in his mind since his early 
days of University life in Germany. To what better purpose 
could he devote his wealth and his executive ability if he found 
someone with youth and enthusiasm to take hold and assemble 
the detail and put it in operation. Leo was his ideal for the 
project, possessing education, desire, perseverance and a thor¬ 
oughgoing belief in the worthiness of the idea. And, too, his 
father would be invaluable in the assistance he might give in 
creating sentiment in favor of it. All undertakings that might 
have within them an element of a disparagement of existing 
religious systems would have obstacles thrown in their paths 
from powerful sources, and it was necessary to have a corre¬ 
sponding influence to counteract such. This Rabbi Schloss¬ 
mann would have; for Jews in a Reformed church are of all 
men and women the most progressive, and ready and glad to 
accept scientific and philosophic ideas for what they are worth, 
entirely without prejudice. Judaism of this kind allows itself 
to be colored by genuine culture, however developed, and to 
its everlasting credit, does not stand in the way of, but bn the 

[105] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


other hand, freely welcomes and assists any movement which 
promises to bring real progress into the world. 

So, in Leo’s death Mr. Breckinridge had lost the idol of 
his heart and he was fearful that he would never find another 
one to take his place—and then he suddenly thought of Ernest 
and the desire to talk with him, at first without plainly speak¬ 
ing his mind, but to ascertain just how far his thinking had 
gone and what his ambitions for life were. 

Ernest little thought what was in store for him when he 
received word to call at the Menger Hotel an afternoon in the 
near future—that Mr. Breckinridge would be glad to see 
him—and to come early. 

How different the atmosphere of the room in which he 
found Mr. Breckinridge from that of the study of Rev. Dod¬ 
son. Here was warmth, and an air of cheerfulness. The 
center table was littered with correspondence—papers, maga¬ 
zines and books having new covers as though just from the 
publishers, and containing the newest thought on the impor¬ 
tant questions and problems of the day—not the musty tomes 
of bygone days for which the present generation has lost its 
taste. 

The world in 1879 was awakening to the fact of the great¬ 
est development it had ever known. Industrially it was taking 
its longest strides, and inventions which were just now being 
perfected would revolutionize the methods of the communica¬ 
tions of peoples and countries, and by accelerating them would 
result in a hundred fold more rapid development than that pro¬ 
duced by the electric telegraph and cable in the last generation. 
Men’s minds were tense with this kind of growth, and with it 
would come naturally a broader culture everywhere. Mr. 
Breckinridge was keeping apace of all this. He was in con¬ 
stant and uninterrupted touch with European thought and art 
through his correspondence with his wife and daughter in 
Paris, and he also had that other strain in his life apart from 
industrialism which so many men had not and for which they 
cared little. 

Suggestively to Ernest he found amongst the titles the 
very books he had been induced by Alice Gardner to read: 
Lewes, George Eliot, Nietzsche, Emerson; and also some 
which he had not before seen: Darwin, Huxley, Spencer, Rus- 

[106] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


kin, Wm. Morris. Ernest’s eyes danced when he beheld all of 
these wonderful expressions of the great minds of his own 
time, and he wondered when he would have the privilege of 
such a library and the knowledge and concentration required 
to comprehend it. It was the same old one-track mind back 
to which he reverted, and he could talk glibly enough on dog¬ 
matic theology, but here was a new world—a myriad-wondered 
world—opening up to him, and he could hardly wait to know 
more about it. 

The eagerness with which he opened the books and 
devoured a few sentences here and there showed Mr. Breck¬ 
inridge he had an apt pupil, and he felt encouraged to question 
him somewhat on the things which lay nearest to his heart. 
At first he got Ernest’s history, and bent of mind, ascertained 
that he was artistically emotional, loved to view things from 
that standpoint, was a devotee of classical music which had 
been such a help to develop in him an interest in poetry and 
the higher literature, found that his puritanical tendency had 
recently given entirely away to a much more liberal view of 
things, was willing to be led in thought to anything that was 
higher ground and in all this, had established a decided dis¬ 
taste for business and money making and was turning from it 
with an actual repulsion. Then came the revelation of the 
foundation left him by his grandfather and the attitude of 
Ernest’s mind: that it was in the nature of a trust he must 
fulfill if he only could know in what direction to proceed. 
Mr. Breckinridge saw the possibilities in the enthusiasm of 
such a youth. The requirement, if Ernest fell in with his plan, 
was a concentration of mind on the higher education by which 
he would be fortified for the strenuous labor in thought, and 
the direct action which the initiator would compel. 

“I don’t mind telling you, Ernest, that I had great hopes 
for Leo, and he and I had agreed on a program after he should 
return to Cincinnati, by which I was to help him make a start. 
Now that events have transpired to prevent the fulfillment of 
those plans what would you say to undertaking to work them 
out in Chicago, with my assistance? I really am very much 
interested in doing something worth while for the benefit of 
humanity and believe there is a new idea which could be 
grafted on the old stalk of religion which might break down 

[ 107 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


some of the insurmountable obstacles which keep people and 
nations apart from one another. Prejudice is a great hindrance 
to universal fellowship—or the brotherhood of man—which 
ought by all means to have been made possible thousands of 
years ago but which has been prevented by their petty differ¬ 
ences of race, color, religion and sex. I purpose to establish 
my project on the unquestioned teachings of a science and 
philosophy, based on the directing suggestions of the evolu¬ 
tionary laws which now for the past twenty-five years have 
been revealing themselves to us through the interpretations of 
the finest minds of the time. Probably you in your educa¬ 
tion have not learned much about the basis of evolution. The 
great majority know little about it, and of course the knowl¬ 
edge of such radical differences which it introduces into the 
reasoning of the human mind would soon upset entirely and 
cause to be revised all of the teachings of dogmatic theology.” 

Ernest replied that of course he realized that a new type 
of thinking was modifying the ideas of the better educated— 
both in and out of the church—leading to the new liberalism, 
but he had never known just what it was that was directing 
the change. Mr. Breckinridge related to him how he had been 
sent by his parents to finish his education after being grad¬ 
uated from college in his own country, to Germany, where the 
air was charged with the discussion of the new theories that 
were then, in the early sixties, being made the basis for new 
systems of thinking. Both German and English professors 
and philosophers were especially studious of the propositions 
emanating from Wallace and Darwin concerning the origin 
of species along evolutionary lines. 

“Just what is the recognized basis of the law?” asked 
Ernest. 

“I am glad you asked me that,” said Mr. Breckinridge, 
“for it is the opening door to all that I wished to talk to you 
about, and unless you are able to recognize it and thereby dis¬ 
miss preconceived notions from your mental equipment, my 
plan will have no interest for you. There are three main 
lines of evidence which compel the student of fossils to believe 
in the doctrine. First—The geologic succession of life on 
earth. Fossils preserved show the actual types of life which 
existed in the periods of successive rock formations. These 

[ 108 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


show a constant advance in life as we pass from the earlier to 
the later series of rocks. Second—The numerous transitional 
or connectional forms of life: For instance, the earliest forms 
of birds had teeth like reptiles, had separate toes ending in 
claws on their front limbs, or wings. Their reptilian relation¬ 
ship is so sure that had they not feathers there would be no 
hesitation in calling them reptiles. Third—The existence of 
the law of recapitulation is even more conclusive, for each 
individual repeats the history of the race to which it belongs. 
This is clearly shown by referring to the frog: starting as a 
tadpole without lungs or legs, breathing through gills, pro¬ 
pelled through water by a tail movement and strongly resem¬ 
bling a fish. Later it develops legs and lungs, absorbs its gills 
and tail, leaves the water and becomes adapted to a life on 
land. In the study of embryology from the various advances 
of the animal in which we are the most interested—man— 
shown during the period of gestation, we can understand his 
gradual development upward, starting at the lowest form of 
life. It is a marvelous story, and while it does not as yet solve 
all the problems of existence, it gives us. a reasonable working 
basis of hope that there is nothing which is unknowable, or 
unthinkable, when the brain of man develops sufficiently to 
give him the ability to comprehend. I think it will be a glorious 
fight to assist in the hastening of the time when intelligence 
instead of ignorance shall be our natural state and the now 
undreamed of powers which lie latent within us will call to 
us to use them,” 

“How marvelous this all is!” said Ernest, “and how funda¬ 
mentally simple. Why are such things kept in the background 
and our receptive young minds not allowed to absorb them 
from the beginning?” 

“Ah, you have asked a question now. But you have only 
to look about you and see the entrenched institutions living on 
dead men’s legacies, and dead men’s convictions, to learn that 
we are tied down to the sacred illusions of the past, and that 
theology and wealth go hand in hand to accomplish their ends 
and strengthen their hold as masters of the world. If we can 
only succeed in stirring the imaginations of people to the 
realization of what it means to them to develop each one his 
own personality, we shall have started the greatest revolution 

[ 109 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


the world has ever witnessed. Heretofore revolutions have 
been political—a mere change of form of personality in gov¬ 
ernment—with the plodding masses soon settling down to the 
same old grind. We must arouse them to the recognition of 
the common humanity everywhere, with the same rights of 
privilege with themselves, and to the possibility which lies 
within the power of each one to develop the sleeping resources 
by which he can take hold of the larger life of richness which 
is within his grasp. We have only, with the imagination which 
evolution furnishes us, to look backward now, instead of to 
the period five or six thousand years ago, when humanity is 
said to have sprung into existence fully developed, in the 
twinkling of an eye, and to have fallen miserably in his estate 
in the same very limited period of time, to the countless mil¬ 
lions of years which have really been his life of growth and 
experience. We then may realize in the eternity ahead he is 
just as likely to attain to the attributes of a superiority corre¬ 
spondingly greater than those which he now possesses. As 
modem inventors accelerate the privileges in the life of man 
and produce others more rapidly than the last, so will a more 
fully organized and capable brain cause man to reveal to him¬ 
self the mysteries of the universe. Certainly his conscious life 
will be increasingly richer and fuller, because it will be through 
knowledge that he rises to make use of his faculties, and with 
this knowledge will come the power of prolonging his years of 
consciousness; and who can say but this same knowledge will 
reveal to him the springs of eternal youth through which, 
presto, change, will come the immortality which religion, in its 
ignorance, has made the goal. This kind of immortality appeals 
to me: the constant, natural growth in one’s natural environ¬ 
ment whereby he assumes the prerogatives of God without 
casting off his shell. Evolution is the gospel of optimism, for 
it is the pathway which is constantly reaching out to help those 
whose eyes are fixed on the forward, and the beyond. I pro¬ 
pose that Art shall lend to the Imagination the enchantment by 
which the interest of the multitude shall react to this newer 
program. If we can fix their attention on the Holy Eucharist 
of knowledge through Art, which leads to the emotional expres¬ 
sion of the deepest there is in them, there can be no doubt as 
to the future of such a movement. The few years it has now 

[HO] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


taken for the scholars of the world to present an acceptable 
statement of the natural laws and processes of evolution of the 
physical, as well as the intellectual, development of the human 
race is the strongest argument possible that the next step can 
be more easily taken, just because the way has been partially 
prepared for it. If we still had the old dogmatic conception of 
things, we should go along seeking personal salvation and 
making supplication to God in the same old way and with the 
same old results; while now we are on a ladder reaching from 
the earth to the unseen depths of cerulean skies which invite 
us on with the breath of their gentle zephyrs into a life of 
growing beauty and power. 

“What would Christ, who said: ‘The poor are with you 
always/ think of a world which has no poor? What would 
St. Francis find to do in such a world? What would happen to 
a world which had no wars or conflicts because there were no 
animosities of race, color or religion to instigate them, and 
because human life was regarded as being too precious a thing 
to be sacrificed? What would the unfortunates who are now 
the victims of prejudice aspire to if they found equal oppor¬ 
tunities? The vision is too magnificent. But we must have 
great visions to attain to any measure of the greatness to which 
we aspire. I would not for a moment destroy the beautiful 
temples and cathedrals of worship which now exist; I would 
simply change the purpose of their being. I would substitute 
reason for superstition in their teaching, using to the best 
advantage their ceremonies and rituals, all the picturesqueness 
of swinging censers and burning incense, all the spiritual upris¬ 
ing which comes with the elevation of the host, the chant of the 
choir and its moving processionals, the works of art in stained 
glass and painted panels, the glorious swells and whisperings 
of the grand organ, the monotone of the priest; indeed, all 
things which stimulate and have their appeal to the imagina¬ 
tion ; but using these things solely and for the purpose only of 
directing and aiding the mind to absorb and admire beauty, in 
its power to bring joy and happiness into a world that with 
them seeks more abundantly to fulfill its part in the developing 
scheme of existence. I am willing to forego for myself the 
exalted privilege of knowing everything, resting content with 
getting a larger degree of satisfaction than my progenitors, and 

fill] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


knowing that my descendants will have a greater knowledge 
and be a part of a more fully grown civilization, if one may 
call it that, than I have known. Herein lies the obligation and 
the privilege of each human life, and if I can, by this plan, 
bring the accomplishment a little nearer, I shall be satisfied 
with the effort. We shall call our new church ‘The Cathedral 
for All Souls/ ” finally said Mr. Breckinridge. 

“Yes,” said Ernest, “we will name it the Church of the 
Opening Flowers, and I will wear the vestments of its first 
priest.” 


[End of Book I.] 


[112] 


BOOK TWO 















CHAPTER I 


Fishers of Men 

The days which followed, until the warmth of middle 
March brought the longing for the North again, were ecstatic 
ones. It would be difficult to determine from their actions 
which, of the two, the dignified, legally minded Thomas J. 
Breckinridge or the young, emotional Ernest Wilmerding, was 
the more elated over the plan they had worked out together 
for the great future. Daily companionship grew into a closely 
woven alliance in which each could suggest to the other a hun¬ 
dred different phases that would fit exactly into the films of 
their imaginations. Ernest was indulging in the reading of the 
Revelations of St. John. These had always attracted him 
because of the spiritual intensity of their fancies and the poetic 
flow of the introspective mind of the author. 

The book now had another and more beautiful meaning 
for him, and in his new mental attitude he wondered how it 
could have had its old interpretation and given him the satis¬ 
faction which he had experienced. He felt the bond of sym¬ 
pathy between himself and St. John; how, for a deepseated 
conviction or a cause which he was sure was righteous, he 
could produce a condition of subjective ecstasy in his con¬ 
sciousness which might become ravishingly beautiful. The 
river of life proceeding from the throne of God had been a 
word picture to him before; now the thought was transposed 
and life became a river like a silver thread winding its way 
into the invisible distance of the future, full of movement, 
ever broadening as it coursed its way to that unknown some¬ 
thing which was the magnet of its being. He was a passenger 
traveling on the bosom of that river, and was conscious of his 
limitations, and yet at each turn in the voyage, as the days 
came and went, he realized a gathering experience by which his 
sense of knowing things better was supremely satisfactory to 
him. If he turned in the boat to look back, he could then 

[115] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


realize the distance he had traveled, and he thought of the past 
year of his life and the almost impossible miles which lay 
between the “now” and the “then.’' But he could think of it 
all with calm satisfaction, and was thankful for the education 
which had come to him. Recently his mind had seemed to 
speak to him rhythmically. The flooding of his thoughts with 
the anticipated happiness of a noble future awakened the 
poetic stream in his soul which yearned to express itself. 

Ah, what a delectable thing to be able to translate one’s 
visions into written reality, an interpretation of a living mood, 
which comes at some uncalled moment—flashes in the sunlight 
and disappears forever, save as the sensitive nature of the poet 
catches it from the unseen and writes it down in characters of 
gold. Now he was thinking of life as a river, and there came 
the new impulse in him to write the figures of his imagination 
in words which would always be his, to bring him back to the 
mood and the day. He surprised himself at what he found he 
had written—lines like these: 

“But the river and I are bound in friendship's ties — 

It moves along with smiles and sighs, 

Speaks of a world beyond, unknown, 

To which, all unwittingly, it has strangely flown. 

Will I let it lead me there, where the mysteries shown 
Tell a secret the river knows — 

An ocean's Nirvana, to which each pilgrim goes?" 

The haunting sense of ties which bind the known with the 
unknown, the friendships of the substance and the shadow as 
they go together, hand clasping hand in the experience of life, 
the objective and the subjective, the material and the introspec¬ 
tive, the real and the spiritual—all these twain which make for 
joy in the marriage of life going forever on into the beyond, 
the unknown, carried by the flowing river to the ultimate place 
of its mystery. Yes, to which each pilgrim goes, drawn by the 
unrelenting hand of Fate. What darkness there was, and how 
the mists gathered as the silver chord of the river melted away 
in the distance. But the unforgetting sun would rise again to 
bring its dazzling light into this darkness and drive the mists 
away. Such a sun would the brain of man be when it had 
grown to a fit maturity wherein the unknowable things of 

[116] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


“now” would become the translated verities of the “then.” 
And he, Ernest, was to become a High Priest of the “Order of 
Realization”—this church of the opening flowers, not proceed¬ 
ing like a river from the throne of God, but gradually revealed 
by the moving tide of a river in its journey toward the ultimate. 

“You have much to do, Ernest,” said Mr. Breckinridge, 
“to prepare yourself for your mission. I wish, most of all, 
that you encourage the expression of your subjective mind, for 
therein lies the gold of an unknown and unexplored region, of 
the vastness of which you have little conception. The ability 
with which you make use of this slumbering genius that lies 
within you will prove your claim to the great satisfactions in 
life which are possible to the human being. Nothing else that 
lives can have this happiness, for it takes beauty and love and 
music out of the invisible and the unseen, and makes of them 
human possessions. Your life work will be objective and 
mechanical if you do not call to your aid this one great possi¬ 
bility of your nature and let it cast its glow on the object 
sought, giving it the mellow tinge of a dream that lifts it out 
of the commonplace into the realm of royalty. Every act of 
your life, every word spoken, every contemplation may be 
touched by the magic fire of this restless genius and the 
shadows which fall on the unnumbered days of others will pass 
you by as strangers. This much I know: that our natural state 
is a white light, which never grows dim or becomes uncertain; 
the shadows are the unnatural things which interfere and bring 
the chill of despondency. Keep in the white light, for the 
power lies within yourself always so to do. Let us become 
‘fishers of men’—not in the sense that men may be ensnared 
as by a net, but in the belief that we may be of service in 
revealing to them the divine powers which lie unused within 
themselves and of which they are ignorant. There is living 
today in our midst a great soul of democracy who cries out his 
message to an unhearing world, save here and there one who 
perceives the divinity that speaks through his personality. His 
name is Walt Whitman, now sixty years of age, saying and 
singing what seemed ridiculous unrhyming lines until a man of 
recognized authority—no less than Ralph Waldo Emerson— 
told the world that the voice of this man was the utterance of 
genius, and since then he has increasingly been the objective 

[117] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


pilgrimage of an army of the curious, as well as the learned, 
from all over the world. He resides very simply and unosten¬ 
tatiously in what he calls a frame “shack,” in Camden, New 
Jersey. 

“He is the great democratic spirit of America and the man 
most of all with whom I would have you familiar. His ‘Leaves 
of Grass/ first published in 1855, is the bible of American 
Democracy and caused Emerson to write, out of the enthus¬ 
iasm which the reading of the book aroused in him: ‘I greet 
you at the beginning of a great career.’ The broad, generous 
nature of Emerson comprehended the spirit of Whitman’s 
voice and foretold the influence it would have on the literature 
of the day, and for days to come after he should have passed 
away. I know of no foundation stones upon which you can 
better build your program for the future than those which this 
single minded man of homely expression has established as a 
gospel of hope. He was a man of the people, learning his 
lines from his daily contact with them. He chose to commingle 
with the great masses of New York and Brooklyn, and touched 
elbows oftenest with the roustabouts of the docks, mechanics 
and men of common labor, the stage drivers with whom he 
often took in the sights of city and country, and all such who 
gave him the atmosphere of vital life which he absorbed for 
the great purpose of later years. His published poems are a 
resume of the great democracy in the midst of which he lived. 
When surfeited with city life, he would take his stick and 
knapsack and wander off on foot into the country where he 
could get the other side of things, as he tells it himself: ‘Afoot 
and lighthearted to take the open road; Healthy, free, the 
world before me; The long, brown path before me, leading 
wherever I chose.’ From all of his observations through the 
years of pilgrimages in city and country he was able to sum 
up, as no one else has, the physical and spiritual America. His 
lines breathe of the freedom of the forest and the stream, of 
the great ocean and the majestic mountain, of the limitless 
prairies of the West and the white-blossomed cotton fields of 
the South, and interwoven with it all the noise and the dirt of 
great cities with their commerce and flow of life from foreign 
shores. With all this the ear would stop to listen to the voice 
of a bird, or the hand to uplift a fragrant flower. All life was 

11181 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


akin, and attuned to his life, and his words: ‘Each of us is 
inevitable, each of us limitless, each of us with his or her right 
upon the earth, each of us allowed the eternal purports of the 
earth, each of us here as divinely as any is here/ give one the 
assurance that there is no prejudice in his great mind, and that 
he finds worth and pleasure in every animate being and in 
every inanimate thing. He fulfills my conception of a ‘fisher 
of men’—not a reformer, or a propagandist—a simple fellow 
like all the rest, but as one having that power of the subjective 
mind which he made use of where others did not. Again his 
words among those in his ‘Song of Myself’ speak out directly 
on this point: 

“ ‘I know perfectly well my own egotism; know my omni- 
varous lines, and must not write any less; and would fetch 
you, whoever you are, flush with myself. It is you talking, just 
as much as myself; I act as the tongue of you tied in your 
mouth—in mine it begins to be loosened.’ ” 

Mr. Breckinridge was speaking to Ernest now out of a 
heart full of enthusiasm; the open book of Whitman’s last 
edition lay before him, and he took great draughts from its 
pages so that the younger man might catch the spirit of its 
genuine democracy. To Whitman these souls of labor revealed 
themselves as to no one else, because he was with them and of 
them, and no schooling or learning from books would put him 
in possession of the real facts of life as would this mutual 
touch of elbows. This, too, must have been Toynbee’s instiga¬ 
tion to work in East London, although here he faced the 
sorrows and despair of poverty. To Mr. Breckinridge the 
practice rather than the theory was the best teacher for 
Ernest, and his enthusiasm for Whitman just now was the 
forerunner of the program to be laid down and followed when 
they started their great work in Chicago. 

“What I say to you about this one man whose vision of 
life I believe you will grasp, is eminently true of others with 
whom you must become intimate, through the practical demon¬ 
strations they are making of their ascertained convictions. I 
need only mention now their names that you may realize the 
advantages of the tutorship which they will gladly afford you: 
Ruskin, William Morris, Burne-Jones, and Tolstoy. These 
with Whitman will afford you a knowledge of how to stimulate 

[119] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


your imagination to find out the greatest expression of life, 
which is our mission, you know.” 

Ernest was bewildered. Here were all these great names 
of his own time exciting the greatest influence of the day, and 
yet of them he knew little or nothing. What a vast field for 
exploration—and he realized the poverty of his heretofore one- 
track mind, and how he must now undo a number of things he 
had felt to be the essential activities of life, and start in an 
entirely different direction. Yes, Alice had been right—just as 
Leo was right—and Mr. Breckinridge was right, while he had 
grouped about like a blind man—only, to his disgust, he was 
not blind but unseeing. 

In Mr. Breckinridge’s own mind the plan was well de¬ 
veloped, as he had gone over the same ground with Leo; but 
he only let out hints now and then to Ernest, for he wished to 
watch the workings of the latter’s mind in connection with the 
sketches he had drawn without the filling in of the colors. 
Ernest soon began to glimpse the fact that after returning to 
Chicago the old environment would necessarily become a 
memory. New friends would be found who dwelt in this 
newer world of thought and art, and the untrained and objec¬ 
tive thinking of former days must yield to the higher life. 
Here were problems for him, and he felt the growing sense of 
responsibility, which he welcomed and yet realized his un¬ 
worthiness to approach. The recollection of his grandfather’s 
trust and the means with which it provided him to lead this 
new life of freedom was always a resource to which he gladly 
turned when he felt the doubts of the unknown future. 

In order that his education might become imbued with the 
perspective, he must not only associate with these new friends, 
but he must live with them and draw from each the inspiration 
of his life. What a wonderful thing it would be if he could 
choose one of several neighborhoods he recalled to mind where 
he could, like Whitman, find an atmosphere and expression of 
democracy, and as well be in the refinement of those whose 
bent in life was the expression of their own talents for music, 
painting, sculpture, industrial art and literature. Did he sup¬ 
pose he could summon a group of such spirits together who 
would feel the helpfulness of such an atmosphere? He had 
only the little story of Toynbee in mind, but the conception 

[120] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


grew until he could picture a future where five or six such in 
some ancient neighborhood had taken possession of a house 
which had been commodious enough for the generation which 
had passed, but now was neglected and presented a forlorn 
picture of what was once its better self. This group could 
each contribute his share towards the upkeep, and if there was 
additional room others could be found from time to time who 
might join them. A housekeeper, some widow with a child or 
two, surely would be glad to come and take charge and thus 
provide them with the motherly care needed to keep things 
together. 

Aside from their private sleeping rooms could be set apart 
a library and reading room, where silence should maintain; but 
best of all a great living room, made up of two ordinary ones 
with the partition removed and a big fireplace for logs built in, 
around which they might sit in their leisure hours and talk. 
The consolations of the pipe (certainly a devilish suggestion) 
would not be forbidden; the chairs should be of the easiest, the 
pictures on the walls of character, the way open for the cheer¬ 
ful company of any who might drop in to spend an evening, or 
to use the books in the library. Ernest soon worked himself 
up to a perspiration of ecstasy over a future of this nature in 
which he was to be educated. Upon his opening his mind to 
Mr. Breckinridge, the latter was within himself elated, but 
only smiled and said: “Permit me to build the fireplace as my 
contribution to the plan—it thoroughly interests me. I do not 
know of any pleasanter abode for ‘Fishers of Men’ to seek 
atmosphere in. You may certainly revel in the paradise, while 
formulating your mind from the ideas of the great spirits of 
our day whose names I have suggested to you as a basis for 
study. You must dub it ‘Walt Whitman House/ to give honor 
to the great spirit of American democracy, and ask him to 
write you an ode for the occasion of its opening. Then, too, 
each year, on the anniversary of his birth, you might call 
together a varied group of the democracy and celebrate the 
event by toasts and speeches, and thus commence to unite the 
forwardlooking persons of the city in a loose but comprehen¬ 
sive tie which may find a congenial expression in the new 
Church of the Opening Flowers. ,, 

At this juncture Ernest could not longer refrain from 

[121] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


communicating all the ebullitions of his hardworking mind to 
Alice. He felt he had neglected her miserably for this new 
fetish which was taking possession of him—both in his dreams 
as well as in his waking hours. He walked about the city— 
over to San Pedro Park—completely lost in the oblivion of a 
new world of which he was to be one of the creators. Of 
course he had to retail the whole story to her, starting with his 
introduction to Mr. Breckinridge by the eminent Greek phil¬ 
osopher, Plato, and this would also inform her about the legacy. 
When he got to the closing point he could not resist telling her 
about the prospect of the “pipe” and the fact that inasmuch as 
he had now become a poet and thought rhythmically, he had 
purchased a bright red necktie with little colored balloons 
spotted over it, as a public notice that he was now a member 
of the honorable order of “bohemians.” Of course the pipe 
was an item for future consideration which must come as part 
of the furnishings of “Walt Whitman House.” He would of 
necessity grow gradually into such accomplishments as tobacco 
and tea from a samovar, but these would be all in the atmo¬ 
sphere. How about such ideas in Boston ? And could she give 
him any suggestions about the house plan? The scheme was 
new and untried, and did she feel as sure of it herself, looking 
from a distance, and with the calm judgment of her dispas¬ 
sionate nature? He felt certain of her approval, but there 
surely would be some sane suggestions which would force 
themselves to his not altogether well-seasoned intentions. 

So he launched his bark forth on this uncertain sea for the 
first criticisms which would be sincere and helpful ones, and 
with the touch of the fellow artists’s imagination. The reply 
would not be a quick one but must necessarily follow some 
contemplation and inquiry on her part. 

Mr. Breckinridge could not resist letting him a little more 
into a knowledge of the foundation stones upon which he pro¬ 
posed to build. He had frequently visited Europe and quite 
often came in contact, especially in England, with those of 
artistic leanings and temperaments, and through these experi¬ 
ences gathered together the basic suggestions of the plan with 
which he proposed to experiment. As an attorney rather 
widely known he had easily obtained entrance to the clubs of 
London and it was his pleasure to have made the valued 

[122] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


acquaintance of John Ruskin whose ardent personality had 
stimulated so much that was really worth while in a revolu¬ 
tionary way in art and literature. The period of this acquaint¬ 
ance was not remote—as late as the early seventies—only 
seven or eight years previous. Ruskin was very mature at that 
time, having passed his fiftieth birthday. His great work had 
been “Modem Painters,” a very widely read book in which he 
defended the rather unpopular ideas of the great artist, Tur¬ 
ner, on the diffusion of light for one thing, and convinced a 
responsible element of the public that ideas of art were not 
sacred any more than other things in life, and must be sub¬ 
ject to the individual interpretations which would continu¬ 
ously evolve new schools of expression. The suggestion that 
Mr. Breckinridge wished to throw out to Ernest just now was 
that the Ruskin influence in England was a most potent one 
amongst thinkers and artists, as was the Whitman idea of 
democracy in America, and that the combination which he was 
endeavoring to cement was of the ideas of the two: progres¬ 
sive democracy and revolutionary art. Ruskin stirred into 
new life the art spirit of England, and soon the schools that 
saw in their work suggestions of the spiritually beautiful felt 
that the master hand of John Ruskin, critic, was responsible 
for it. He was revitalizing the Romantic Movement in art as 
well as in literature. In the latter his prose works poetized 
the lines with the halo of a beauty almost rhythmic. His 
“Sesame and Lilies” was a new note in prose expression so 
delightful in its phrasing as to stimulate the imaginations of 
all classes of readers. His mind was fast working towards 
socialism as the healing cure for the ills of the English democ¬ 
racy, and while his language was beyond the comprehension 
of the greater number, the breath of the redeemer was felt 
by the multitudes. Without doubt the influence of Ruskin 
was the most potent of the generation in which it was most 
powerfully exerted. 

Ernest would have occasion as his education progressed, 
to observe the plastic minds of such as Rossetti, Holman Hunt, 
William Morris and Edward Burne-Jones forming under the 
guiding hand of the master. The expression which the pre- 
Raphaelites caught was that of making art a simple, sincere 
religious utterance with great emphasis on truth of detail. The 

[123] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


poetry of Rossetti was the mystically subjective production 
of a highly colored imagination, and won for him a peculiar 
place in the hearts of his enthusiastic contemporaries. Hands 
reaching across the sea clasped each other in the warm grasp 
of the common acknowledgement of simple greatness, and 
Whitman and Rossetti found a sympathetic touch each in the 
utterances of the other. As Ernest scanned the lives of these 
men and realized their power, he wondered why he had passed 
nineteen years of a commonplace life and missed altogether 
the Promethean fire which had been kindled by them. He then 
reflected that he was but one of millions like himself, whose 
eyes had never been opened to these things so worth while, 
and had even been satisfied not to have known of another and 
better part of the world of the mind which had been kept 
closed to them. Whose fault was it? And he could make but 
one answer: “Thou shalt have no other gods before me, for 
I, the Lord, thy God, am a jealous God.” This, then, was the 
sacrifice of nineteen years of his life—nineteen irredeemable 
years in which not a latent talent, or faculty had been awak¬ 
ened to a realization of the power which lay within him. 

As he sat on the bench in San Pedro Park with these 
thoughts swimming in his mind he was oblivious of the fact 
that Cristoforo, whom he had not seen since they parted after 
that eventful afternoon at San Fernando, was standing before 
him, watching intently the play of the lights and shadows 
across his face. Conscious of some deep abstraction, Cristo¬ 
foro had not broken in on the meditation, but stood quietly 
awaiting the finality, and when Ernest with his clenched hand 
was delivering his mental anathema to the Church, he awoke 
to the fact that his friend’s eye was fixed upon him as though 
he could divine his mental processes. 

An embarrassment as of guilt spread over Ernest’s face 
when he caught the amused expression on the face of his 
friend. “What thinkest thou, Ernest?” he asked, as if to break 
the silence that la)' between. 

“Only of my wasted years,” was the reply. “God’s grace 
is all sufficient,” said Cristoforo. “I have prayed since we 
parted at San Fernando, that your eyes might see the rightful 
vision as revealed in the life of St. Francis.” 

“It is true,” said Ernest, “that a vision came to me there, 

[124] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


but not the vision of the voice of God which so many have 
heard. When the music of Tristan and Isolde flooded my 
soul, already enraptured by the emotion aroused by your art 
and the jewelled setting of the story of St. Francis, I was 
lifted above and beyond anything I had ever before known, 
and it fitted me for the experiences of the past few days. These 
have shown me the divine pathway of my future life.” 

He could not tell Cristoforo of Leo, and the tragedy of 
his death but said enough to satisfy him that a crucial time 
had passed and through it a definite result obtained. Cris¬ 
toforo knew from his manner and expression that the decision 
was away from God as revealed to the Church of the Fran¬ 
ciscans, and he spoke abruptly as though impatient that a soul 
which he had hoped to convert had eluded him and passed 
beyond his reach. Stretching out his arm to the landscape 
before him, and to the sky, and sun, and moving clouds, he 
said: “Here is the handiwork of God made manifest that 
your eyes may see his works and be satisfied. How can you 
be indifferent to the Creator of such a world as this?” 

Ernest, realizing the futility of argument with a mind cast 
in the mold of Cristoforo’s, said simply: “I have learned now 
to realize that everything which I see has grown from the 
smallest and most insignificant experiences of life, without 
miracle or creation. I realize the modesty of this point of 
view and am willing to accept it as my future guide. I feel 
the common impulse with you, my brother, in the love of the 
beautiful in life, and as it looks to me now the development 
of this beauty slowly, but surely, is Nature’s way of telling 
man of the unseen beauty and goodness which is to come to 
him in the countless eras yet to be realized. I cannot get this 
out of religion for it has no like pattern by which to fill my 
mind with a figure of hope. Immortality promises nothing 
definite on which I may found a basis of perception; but in 
the processes of an unfolding nature I may expect the larger 
and better something which is already patterned before me— 
in my eyes as a thing of joy and beauty. I shall have to take 
the outer garments of your faith without the faith itself, and 
build with them a structure which fills my mind’s desire.” 

So Ernest parted from Cristoforo, as a few days before 
he had parted with the Reverend Dodson—each convinced 

[125] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


of the very apparent differences in their religious sympathies, 
yet each burdened with the ties of human regard which 
remained unsatisfied in consequence of their opposing attitude 
of mental approach. 

* * * * 

The days of departure from San Antonio were now in 
sight for both Mr. Breckinridge and Ernest. The former was 
called to New York on business matters but arranged with 
Ernest to meet him in Chicago in the latter part of April and 
decide on the first steps to be taken for the initiation of the 
“Walt Whitman House.” Ernest was to do such preliminary 
work as he could after his return and have his suggestions 
ready for conference with Mr. Breckinridge when he should 
arrive. His health was now fully restored and he felt the 
active impulses of youth to enter into his new plans with all 
the enthusiasm with which they possessed him. It was not 
easy to feel that he must bid goodby to the home he had found 
so full of comforts for the past six weeks or more, and the 
kind hearted Mrs. Jarvis more than once expressed the wish 
that he would not go back again to Chicago—indeed, the entire 
family gathered there found themselves congenial in that they 
respected the thoughts and occupations of the others and were 
always solicitous for the well-being and happiness of those 
with whom they were so closely associated. None of them 
thought of Ernest especially save as of a young man who was 
growing and developing physically and mentally—they could 
not enter into any understanding of the changing processes 
which were gradually shifting his viewpoints in such important 
directions. They realized that he was companionable and 
kind—always willing to do the little things which bespoke 
thoughtfulness and interest in others’ comforts and welfare. 

Reverend Dodson had not found the expression of inter¬ 
est and co-operation which he had expected: for this he was 
grieved and sorrowful, but being a man who took such things 
complacently, and as one not having many variations in his 
daily round of ministrations, he made no attempt to turn 
Ernest from his way after the eventful afternoon in the study. 
In fact, he believed that the grace of God would put its saving 
arms about him and persuade him to return to the fold after 

[126] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


the baneful influence of Thomas J. Breckinridge had been 
removed through separation. Of him he thought: “That 
man is persistent and seems bent on filling the minds of sus¬ 
ceptible young people with the ideas of anti-Christ.” 

Just before taking the train Ernest received his final letter 
from Alice and placed it in his pocket to read when he had the 
leisure to more fully enjoy its contents, as he knew the reac¬ 
tion of his closest friend to the plan of the Walt Whitman 
House would be found inside. Then, goodby to San Antonio, 
perhaps forever! How his mind ran over the events of the 
past six weeks now as he was fixing his eyes for the last time 
on all the familiar objects. City of a healing memory! Its 
wand of a rejuvenating power had waved gracefully about 
him until he felt the spell of the magic charm of a new life 
steal within. What a change now to know that the old lassi¬ 
tude of body and uncertainty of mind and purpose were gone, 
and instead a great star of Hope had risen in the heavens 
which should be his guide and inspiration in the new future. 
He lounged comfortably in the cushioned seat of the car as 
the train sped out of the range of vision of the tower of San 
Fernando—out on the plains of the great State of Texas. He 
could still hear in his memory-mind the vesper bells of the old 
Cathedral as they rang out the first time for him in the early 
days of his visit. But loudest of all the tones of the grand 
organ, which thrilled him so unexpectedly the day of the 
Liebestod of Tristan and Isolde as they floated through the 
open windows of the parish house and let him dwell for a few 
golden moments in a spiritual paradise. As the new days 
should come he knew he would repeatedly experience the 
delight of this vision in his mind as often as his imagination 
might turn itself back again in retrospection. Blessed vision! 
Golden years of youth that catch these finer glimpses in the 
greenness of life’s springtime, and hold them forever in a 
loving grasp. 

Now came to him the thought of the unopened letter in 
his pocket and he almost felt ashamed that he had forgotten 
it for so long—and it meant so much to him. 

Framingham, Mass. 

Dear Ernest: March 13, 1879. 

I know this letter will reach you just about the time you 

[127] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


are starting back North again. I hope the change in the cli¬ 
mate will not be too abrupt for you. The wonderful box of 
oleander and lilac blossoms which you sent me have seemed 
like an Eden blooming in a white sown desert. The landscape 
about here is purity itself—buried in an avalanche of snow 
which gave us a lingering visit a day or two ago, as if to 
remind us that winter was still collecting its toll and would 
continue to do so for quite a while longer. I am all impa¬ 
tience for the new term after Easter to commence at the Con¬ 
servatory, where I may test my qualifications as an instructor 
of hopeful young girls who believe they will be fitted for piano 
teaching and concert work as soloists, after the usual prelim¬ 
inaries are gone through. I trust they all realize that success 
will come only after a strenuous time of self-denying drudgery 
at scales and finger exercises. All the preparation will seem 
so prosaic and many will fail to perceive that this kind of work 
must be kept up long after they have attained more than an 
ordinary degree of proficiency. 

Well, enough of this. I am so excited about your plans 
that I almost forget my own. The vision of that red necktie 
with the balloon spots in it makes me flush with pride that 
now I have such a distinguished looking friend and fellow 
spirit. How different from the meek looking young saint 
whom I last saw in the pallid flesh only two months or so ago. 
I can even be prepared for the photograph of a long-haired 
bohemian spiritual, with rhyming accents over writing his 
flowing signature, and of course proudly holding the briar root 
pipe in his hand while he endures the ennui of posing for the 
picture. It’s all right Ernest, as long as you have serious inten¬ 
tions back of all this, and I believe you have. From what 
you write to me of Mr. Breckinridge I feel sure he is the wise 
man of experience whom you needed to meet in the San 
Antonio desert, and will be your safeguard to keep you from 
getting into any fanciful or impractical moves. I know of no 
environment that will serve to round out your education 
more admirably than the proposed one of an active associa¬ 
tion with fellow-artists who are sincere and serious in their 
endeavors to establish themselves creditably in their profes¬ 
sions. I am sure if you will look up young Pilsudski when 
you return he will be able to be of great assistance to you 

[128] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


in formulating your plans. It occurs to me to advise you first 
not to take too many into your scheme until you have estab¬ 
lished it, and then when it is presentable, select those one by 
one who are fitted intellectually to enter into the comradeship. 
I believe enthusiastically in a brotherhood of this kind, and the 
great service it will be to its members; but it must be based 
on the thought of congeniality or it will have unpleasant epi¬ 
sodes in its incipiency. The other suggestion I have to make 
is that the question of religion or religious prejudices does not 
enter into the program at the beginning. Try to live your lives 
naturally and see if the dogmas will not bury themselves from 
lack of fuel to keep the fires burning. The very idea of a 
Walt Whitman brotherhood, embracing the principles of John 
Ruskin and the brilliant coterie of Englishmen who have felt 
the influence of his revolutionary thought in art, and a love 
for his fellowmen should be a sufficient basis of your associa¬ 
tion, and let the other things remain in the background. I can¬ 
not let you think that these suggestions of mine are criticisms; 
I think so well of your immediate plan and the grander one 
which lies behind it as to only urge upon you the thoughts 
that have come to me in my joy at the prospect of its being 
undertaken by you, and the wonderful way in which the means 
have been provided for its carrying out. What could be surer 
auguries of its succes than to have both your grandfather, 
Wetherbee, and Mr. Breckinridge, behind you, pushing the 
thought to realization. I can see in my mind’s eye that won¬ 
derful church of humanity, rising with its beautiful spire as a 
token of common ground, where all thoughts of brotherhood 
can find a meeting place within the walls of a cathedral of art, 
expressing itself in reason and not in prejudice. Yea, verily; 
the Walt Whitman Brotherhood will be a real instrument for 
the “Fishers of Men.” As I once wrote in your autograph 
album I can again repeat: “May your life have just enough 
clouds to make a glorious sunset.” 
******** 

This letter spurred Ernest on to renewed thought on the 
journey homeward. What would his father and mother say 
to all this ? They knew, of course, of his grandfather’s bequest, 
but they did not realize the intellectual change which had come 
in these few weeks in San Antonio. It would certainly be a 

[129] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


great shock to his mother to find his religious views replaced 
by ones in such extreme opposition. It is not easy for a mother 
to give up the inheritance of generations, and especially to 
know that an only son has parted from the ways and pulled out 
into the open sea. Ernest knew that she did not realize this 
as yet and he intended to be very good and kind with her, but 
it was certain he must be sure of himself and speak quite 
decidedly of his new convictions and then, when he thought 
of what she would say about his leaving home to live with other 
young and homeless men in an experiment of brotherhood, he 
knew there would be quite a struggle to maintain his position. 
Such an idea was a new one, and if Arnold Toynbee had gone 
off and tried it out all alone by himself, there must have been 
special circumstances which allowed it and there was no ques¬ 
tion of a mother’s feelings involved. What his other friends 
might think did not make such a great difference. He well 
knew they would be very skeptical about anything of the kind ; 
in fact, would not understand any such abrupt change in a 
young man of nineteen of whom they had always seen only 
one side and of whom they did not suspect any other develop¬ 
ment possible. 

Well, he had the backing of Alice Gardner anyway, and 
what she had always stood for went a long way with him, for 
he believed that any initiative he had ever shown was due to 
her instigation, and in this move the very persons who would 
undoubtedly be found congenial to him were her friends and 
associates in the South Halsted street art group. As soon as 
he conveniently could he would have a talk with Stanley Pil- 
sudski and lay his plans before him. His own thought had 
digested far enough to recommend the securing of a good type 
of a home in the vicinity of where he now lived—one which 
was too large for the family that had spent a generation or so 
in it. This would be conveniently near the center, within easy 
distance, in fact, so that the members of the brotherhood could 
walk wherever they desired to go. The location, too, would be 
on the fringe of the lower grades of living, from which they 
desired to draw the interest of such of the young people as 
they might attract to come to the home for social life. His 
plans in this regard could not take very lucid shape for there 
were no established examples of this kind of living to go by. 

[130] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


He only was convinced, in a very definite way, of the neces¬ 
sity of an experiment in democracy to bring the first fruits 
of success to the fundamental idea lying at the bottom of the 
whole scheme. And so with his mind brimming with thoughts 
like these he arrived home, just as winter was yielding to the 
first touches of spring, and found himself physically braced 
and mentally alert to make a plunge at once into the work 
at hand. 

How comfortable it was to get back again to the old 
home, to wander through the rooms and recognize the lamillar 
objects; to find his mother’s eyes gazing upon him with pride, 
observing his improved condition and his generous appetite. 
He was the very apple of her existence, and the obligation of 
informing her of the revolution in his mind grew to be a per¬ 
plexing problem to him, and he must meditate on just how to 
present the matter to her in a gentle and compassionate man¬ 
ner. He soon believed that by explaining to her the obligation 
of trust which he felt in carrying out her father’s wishes, not 
saying too much about the religious phase, would be the easiest 
way of opening her eyes to the reality a little at a time and 
putting it in the light of an occupation which would be of 
benefit to humanity. He was sure she would not believe there 
was anything especially radical about that—afterward, the 
progress would be natural and without shock to her, and even, 
perhaps, she might be very much attracted to the novelty of 
it all. Then, too, what would she think of his poetic expres¬ 
sions? He felt that his sub-conscious mind would be very 
prolific now in this direction if he had these stimulating sur¬ 
roundings to fill his imagination with pictures of fancy and 
dream. He had noticed his mother’s eye fastened for a 
moment on the new red necktie with the balloon spots and 
wondered if she connected the possession of such a tie with 
any suggestions of bohemianism in his nature. 

Then he realized that of course she didn’t, for bohemia 
was a totally unknown world to her and poetry only existed 
within the clasped covers of beautifully bound books lying 
mostly untouched on the onyx-topped table in the front parlor. 
Inasmuch as over exertion in business had been the cause of 
his physical downfall, he believed that neither of his parents 
would seriously insist that he take that chance again. He 

[131] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


feared nothing from his father excepting perhaps the infer¬ 
ence he might get from him that he was indulging in foolish¬ 
ness after he had learned what the plans were. He therefore 
finally decided that it would be best for him to at once reveal 
the whole situation in a quiet but positive way to his mother, 
and go along with his preparatory plans just as though there 
could be no other immediate occupation for him. 

The house he had selected in his mind’s eye, and already 
visited to re-enforce his pre-conceived ideas of its especial 
fitness for the very purposes he had in mind, was a delightful 
old style square brick mansion, situated in the middle of a half 
block of green grass and trees at the corner of Sangamon and 
Van Buren streets, two stories in height, with bay windows on 
either side of a center doorway. The hallway ran through 
the house on both floors with many doors opening off, indicat¬ 
ing an unusual number of rooms—apparently just the size for 
his purpose. Plenty of windows bringing in the light to all 
the rooms. The south side of the main floor aside from the 
ell at the rear of the house was susceptible of remodelling into 
one large living-room for the social features; and on the north 
side the space would well cut up for the library and music 
room. In the rather extensive ell could be arranged the eat¬ 
ing department with all its possibilities of satisfaction for the 
inner man. The home was that of an old family, the head of 
which had been twice mayor of Chicago, and would now wil¬ 
lingly spend his leisure elsewhere. Ernest was well acquainted 
with its members and he thought it could not be difficult for 
him to make the necessary arrangements for his purpose, as 
the neighborhood was beginning to change for the worse and 
the family would never go back there. He would, of course, 
consult and get the judgment and consent of Mr. Breckinridge, 
hoping that he would think as favorably of it as he did. 

It indeed seemed to him to possess all the requisites for 
the plan in mind, and if the rent was not prohibitive he thought 
there could be no objection on the part of anyone to say any¬ 
thing else than “Amen.” He was sure that what necessary 
furnishings were needed could be secured by the different 
members. He knew the attic of his own home was filled with 
the laid-away treasures of twenty years. No family, certainly 
of New England extraction, would think of disposing of any- 

[ 132 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


thing it had once acquired and his recollection passed very 
rapidly over chairs, bureaus, draperies, books, magazines, 
clocks, pictures, and sundry and divers quantities of linen, 
crockery, and glassware which awaited him, now that he had 
found a new cycle of existence for them in which to manifest 
themselves. 

Well, that settled a whole lot of the problems, and he next 
wondered who the personalities would be as willing and anx¬ 
ious to associate themselves in the experiment as he was. Now 
he felt that he was about to test the strength or the weakness 
of the idyllic fancy of his brain. Would others see it as he 
did? And would they be willing to sacrifice as much? Or 
was it a sacrifice? It seemed an opportunity to Ernest; but 
then, others might not enter into the spirit of it as he had 
under the particular environment in which it was born into his 
life. However, he felt sure of this: That probably the young 
men whom he would try to interest to become members of the 
brotherhood undoubtedly did not have as pleasant surround¬ 
ings as this house would afford them, and he realized the inter¬ 
est which novelty introduces into the minds of the young who 
are on the threshold of life's experiences. He knew that all 
of these men would be imaginative, possessing qualifications 
of some kind of art development and would believe in a degree, 
at least, in the benefit which would come to them individually 
by such contact with fellow spirits. What the idea once estab¬ 
lished would grow into, Ernest could not foretell, but since 
leaving San Antonio and reflecting on the possibilities of use¬ 
fulness in a city of complexities like Chicago, he dared believe 
there would be a great and growing field for associations of 
this kind. 

The facts were that Chicago, in 1870, had only 300,000 
people—now it had grown to 500,000, and the European accre¬ 
tions were adding immensely to the numbers of those totally 
unassimilated and unused to these newer conditions of life. 
They would need help in many ways, and if they found, 
conveniently to them, an open door of welcome from a 
human brotherhood they would gladly avail themselves of its 
advantages. 

Ernest had noticed for two or three years that the neigh¬ 
borhood adjoining on the south to where he resided, was 

[ 133 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


becoming filled with a mixed population consisting of Polish 
and Russian Jews, Italians, Greeks and other nationalities of 
the minor southern countries of Europe, and for this reason 
he preferred to select a house which would be accessible and 
convenient for an association with them, for after all, the pos¬ 
sibilities of artistic development lay largely with the immi¬ 
grants from these countries. 

His mind now recalled the evening spent with Alice Gard¬ 
ner and her club in the Halsted street restaurant, his favor¬ 
able impression of Stanley Pilsudski; and now she had advised 
him in her last letter to consult with him and get his interest 
and assistance. Probably he knew of a number of fellow 
spirits who might be the very ones to enter into the scheme 
enthusiastically. He knew from Stanley’s poem on the Greek 
Good Friday event that he was an idealist, and that was just 
what he needed at the present juncture. It did not take him 
long to get into communication with Stanley and arrange to 
have him come to the house to spend an evening, to talk things 
over. It was nearing the time when Mr. Breckinridge would 
pass through Chicago, and he wished to have his plans form¬ 
ulated and ready to offer for a decision as nearly as he could 
at that time. He would like, if possible, to have possession of 
the house by May 1st, and furnish it up at once so as to be 
ready for a formal opening on Walt Whitman’s birthday which 
would come on the 31st of that month. What a distinguished 
pleasure it would be to write to old Walt of the brotherhood 
and to ask him for a special poem to be written for the occa¬ 
sion and made the first object to be attached to the bulletin 
board. Ernest danced a jig when he thought of this and the 
plans he would work out for the celebration on that night. 
The newspapers would certainly have something to say about 
such an event and it would bring the whole plan to the atten¬ 
tion of the public at once. 

Stanley arrived on the evening designated and proved to 
be a very modest, amiable sort of a chap, entirely unsophis¬ 
ticated and unspoiled by his associations since his arrival in 
Chicago a year before. He was acquiring a very good faculty 
of expressing himself in English and gave every evidence of 
being studious and with an ardent desire to accomplish his 
purpose of finding a place for himself in the art life of the 

[ 134 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


city. He spoke very interestingly of the permanent exhibit 
near Aldine Square, on the south side of the city, which was 
the center of inspiration of artists of all classes and at which 
he had made a number of lasting acquaintances. Of all this, 
of course, Ernest knew nothing, had not even known of the 
wonderful Aldine Square, which was one of the visiting spots 
for many of the strangers who came to Chicago. 

In appearance Stanley was noticeably a foreigner, and an 
artist. He was about Ernest’s age and build—dressed in a 
corduroy suit with a delightfully flowing green tie, surmounted 
by a picturesque hat brought over from Poland. His com¬ 
plexion was clear with sparkling blue eyes, all of which, with 
his beautiful white teeth and flaxen hair made him a radiant 
picture to look upon. He would and did attract attention 
everywhere, while his delightful accent made it a pleasure to 
converse with him. Ernest felt at once now, as he had before 
at the Art Club, a fascination for him, and believed that with 
this accession to the Walt Whitman Brotherhood there would 
be no question as to its success. 

He then proceeded to unfold the plan, going into minute 
details as far as he had thought them out and laying particu¬ 
lar emphasis on the support which would be derived from 
Mr. Breckinridge. To all this Stanley listened with open-eyed 
wonder, for it was indeed to him a revelation—and an oppor¬ 
tunity. He had known of subsidized theaters and art museums 
and schools in Europe, but in his contact with life in the 
United States there had been no suggestion of art, or assist¬ 
ance, excepting to beggars or mendicants to whom had been 
thrown a morsel of food or an unused penny. 

His impulse was undisguisedly favorable to the undertak¬ 
ing and he was very sure that he knew two or three young 
men who would become interested. Of course, to anyone who 
was fortunate enough to have possessed a college or university 
education the association and fellowship of young men living 
together in dormitories or frat houses was not a new experi¬ 
ence; but to Ernest it was, and with the degree of freedom it 
represented, both in thought as well as in action, he could not 
conceive of anything more conducive to the development of 
individuality. He had always to keep in mind the real thought 
standing behind the whole of the planning—that was the 

[ 135 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


growth of the brain through the building up of the imagination 
—and when he suggested this to Stanley, the latter was more 
than overjoyed at the prospects, for this was the one thing 
that gave him the power to “carry on.” 

So it was agreed that Stanley should invite three of his 
friends to come to Ernest’s home as soon as it could be 
arranged to have a general conference to see how the others 
would be impressed and whether or not they would be per¬ 
sonally interested. The little club of which Alice was a mem¬ 
ber was composed largely of those who were really making 
their own way in one form or another in the artistic expres¬ 
sion of life and were giving it the earnest and devoted atten¬ 
tion of their youthful enthusiasms. There was, for instance, 
Herbert Rossmore, an Englishman, a few years older than 
either Ernest or Stanley. He was a university graduate who 
wanted to see the world and had drifted to Chicago on his 
way. He possessed a small inheritance and made up his 
deficiency by teaching in private families, or tutoring, as it was 
called in England. Stanley thought very highly of him as a 
balance wheel, as he possessed good judgment and was thor¬ 
oughly refined and cultured. 

Then there was Jerome Homer, a fellow about twenty- 
three, who painted very delightfully—landscapes of the coun¬ 
try round about. He was from New England, where his past 
experience had been translating the glorious hills and lakes 
from Nature to canvas, and he had found some interested 
buyers in Chicago for these productions, especially amongst 
the New England families of which there were a great num¬ 
ber. Finally there was Fritz von Hohenstaufen, a rotund, 
good-natured German whose soul was of music, and in dreams 
he listened to the ravishing notes of the muses themselves. 

He found no difficulty as a teacher of voice and piano to 
support himself and lay by an extra dollar now and then. 
These three, if Stanley found them willing, would make a con¬ 
genial company with which to start and formulate the pre¬ 
liminaries. They both agreed that two or three additional 
ones would make a splendid start as soon as they could select 
those whom they believed would be representative types of 
the ideas of the Whitman democracy. At the first meeting 
the others would have been selected and invited to join the 

[ 136 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


deliberations. Ernest’s opinion of Stanley’s judgment was 
confirmed now that they had talked the whole thing over and 
found an absolute agreement, and he was entirely willing to 
leave the choice of the additional members to him, quite con¬ 
fident that Mr. Breckinridge would voice his approval. Curi¬ 
ous to say, Stanley had none of the racial prejudices which 
were so commonly found amongst the peoples of Central 
Europe, and in fact that was the one great reason why he had 
come to a new country made up of so many nationalities, to 
watch their assimilation as a maker of experimental democ¬ 
racy. It would be perfectly natural, therefore, for Ernest to 
find out, although at first surprising him and allowing doubts 
to cross his mental horizon for a little, that Stanley had 
grasped the situation as deeply as he had, and to the second 
conference there came gladly not only the ones he had first 
mentioned, but Jose Alvarez, a Mexican, of Spanish descent, 
in Chicago as a student of political and social economy, with 
the ambition to some day be of service to his fellow people in 
lifting them up from the terrible degradation conditions had 
forced upon them. 

With him came Lessing Schwartz, a Russian Jew, study¬ 
ing law, bound to attain a position at the bar and become a 
leader amongst the thousands of Jews who were making this 
city one of the great centers of this old race. And finally, 
and Ernest could scarcely believe it, a fine looking, clean-cut 
young negro, named Langston Douglas, fitting himself at one 
of the West Side colleges to be a physician and surgeon. 

This conference resulted in a love-feast veritably. Each 
one of the young men felt within himself that life was about 
to open for him the door of a genuine opportunity. There 
was a sense of independence with each, as though he was 
mastering his way, but, too, it was the self-respecting depend¬ 
ence which gets encouragement at the touch of elbow with 
another like one’s self, who has found out his desire of attain¬ 
ment in life and has started out to overcome the obstacles 
in the pathway. It did not require a great stretch of imagina¬ 
tions already in decided action, to realize that this contact 
was to be one of supreme value, and as they glanced from one 
to the other and saw what entirely different types they were, 
the obvious fact of all being humans, entitled to the same 

[ 137 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


privileges and opportunities, flashed out and they enjoyed the 
bond of sympathy which the thought afforded them. Individ¬ 
uals can generate conclusive systems of action, but it is the 
individual collectively, when strenuously tending towards a 
certain invisible point of attainment, that so amplifies and 
clarifies each single conclusion as to gradually arrive at a com¬ 
posite one which commands united approval and acceptance. 

It was so here and the results were a pretty clearly defined 
plan of action by which Mr. Breckinridge, when he arrived, 
could decide quickly and surely that his ship would be manned 
by faithful and judicious sailors, even though they had no 
actual experience in a brotherhood of democracy. Whitman 
to them collectively was not a well known realization, but the 
individual contributions of these eight summed up quite a lot 
of detail which, when put together, made a pretty piece of 
embroidery. 

Mr. Breckinridge scarcely dared think he would find 
awaiting his coming such a united and enthusiastic band of 
coadjutors, and as he conversed with the group, together and 
separately, he was completely taken with their personalities. 
There was no evidence of selfishness or jealousy in the makeup 
of any, and all felt that it was an open door to them for which 
they were grateful and most willing to show their appreciation. 

Mr. Breckinridge, too, liked the house and with Ernest 
spent an hour or so with the family. He found to his surprise 
that the owner was a fellow-lawyer, and that they knew of 
one another after hearing the names spoken. It made it very 
easy to enter into an arrangement because of this, especially 
as Mr. Breckinridge would lend the benefit of his name and 
financial guarantee. 

After going over the house which had been occupied by 
this same family for twenty years, many things like carpets, 
shades and considerable furniture were found impracticable 
to remove and it was decided to leave much undisturbed. This 
was a contribution which had been entirely unexpected and 
left the furnishing problem in a much simpler form for them 
to work out. They finally decided that in sending out the 
announcements of the Whitman birthday celebration they 
would state their needs for furnishings and let their friends 
make such donations as they felt inclined to. They were 

[ 138 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


especially anxious to start with a good library, principally of 
books that might be useful to them in their various lines of 
study, and they knew that their artistically inclined friends 
would be careful to send them only such books. 

Before Mr. Breckinridge left the city he and Ernest had 
a long talk about the future of the Walt Whitman House after 
the event of the opening. He had recently received letters 
from his family in Paris, indicating a longer stay there than 
he had supposed, and it was very indefinite as to when they 
would return to America. Inasmuch, however, as Ernest’s 
education fitting him for the life of the Church would require 
a long period of preparation, Mr. Breckinridge felt that he 
himself could visit in Europe as opportunity presented itself 
and not interfere with his oversight of the Chicago venture. 
It was agreed that Ernest should become the head resident 
and direct its affairs, subject to the approval and assistance of 
the elder man. Each resident was to pay a nominal sum 
which, altogether, would meet the operating expense of the 
house aside from the rent which Mr. Breckinridge assumed. 
Ernest was to confer with the other residents and work out 
as harmonious a plan as possible for their common comfort 
and privilege. 

Herbert Rossmore seemed rather well fitted to tutor 
Ernest, certainly for a while anyway, and later if he required 
the benefit of special knowledge on lines along which the other 
was not well posted could obtain it as best he could by taking 
special courses at the regularly established places of instruc¬ 
tion. Mr. Breckinridge stated that as soon as he made his 
first European visit he would select a number of books in 
London and Paris, and probably Berlin, and Vienna, treating 
on artistic and sociological subjects and have them sent on 
to enlarge the library. He also proposed to subscribe for a 
number of foreign magazines of cultural interest which would 
be forwarded regularly. 

These with the selected American publications should keep 
the Brotherhood up to date in a knowledge of the prominent 
movements of the day. Thus the fabric of the structure which 
was to rise uniquely out of the night on the coming thirty- 
first day of May, 1879, was now fully woven and its pattern 
was of dazzling beauty to those who held it in the closest con- 

[ 139 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


templation. Mr. Breckinridge promised to return for the open¬ 
ing event and also agreed to write to Walt Whitman, inform¬ 
ing him of the whole plan and asking him to send a special 
greeting in words appropriate to the occasion. The rest of the 
arrangements were left to the chosen eight. 

There was now a month of preparation before them, and 
they looked forward eagerly to the day when they could take 
possession of the house and begin, with the efficient aid of the 
home mother, the process of putting things in order suitable 
to their ideas of bachelor comfort. Each would render his 
most important, immediate service by securing such furnish¬ 
ings as he was able, and these with the prospective contribu¬ 
tions of friends would put everything in acceptable condition 
for the eventful day. 

The program for the evening would include readings from 
Whitman and Ruskin, several short addresses by school 
teachers, newspaper writers and literary people, together with 
perhaps original poems appropriate to the occasion. Mr. Breck¬ 
inridge would explain the purpose of the Brotherhood and 
extend an invitation to any and all interested to make them¬ 
selves free to pass an idle hour at the house whenever the 
spirit moved them. It was an experiment in democracy, he 
would say, especially fitted to a growing young city like Chi¬ 
cago, which was becoming one of the great melting pots of the 
new world, and where theories would be tested in the lives 
of real men. 

* * * * 

Events moved rapidly now to a consummation—the 
arrangements worked themselves out satisfactorily. Lilac time 
was here and the perfume filled the house as the open windows 
of a warm May evening brought their intoxicating scent from 
the full blossomed bushes in the yard. The memory of Whit¬ 
man’s tribute to the martyred president arose in the minds of 
the assembled people as Ernest read the opening lines of the 
immortal poem: 

“When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed, 

And the great star early drooped in the Western sky in the 
night. 

I mourned , and yet shall mourn with ever returning spring. 

[ 140 ] 


ERNEST WIEMERDING 


Ever returning spring trinity sure to me you bring 

Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the West, 

And thought of him I love” 

“0 powerful, Western, fallen star! 

0 shades of night—0 moody, tearful night! 

0 great star disappeared, 0, the black muck that hides the 
star. 

0 cruel hands that hold me powerless—0 helpless soul 
of me! 

0 harsh surrounding clouds that will not free my soul!” 

And as the book closed in his hands there was a silence 
as if with the benediction of an unseen power resting over 
the audience. Then came, “while all was hushed, the faint 
sound of bells from some distant spire, floating through the 
open windows, speaking of the harmonies of the soul and the 
common love all men would bestow upon one another in 
days to come.” 

Once more the thrill of memory of old San Fernando 
came rushing like a torrent through Ernest’s pulsing brain, 
and he heard again the voice of Cristoforo mingling with the 
tune of the death song of Tristan and Isolde. It is in ecstatic 
moments such as these that we are carried to the mountain 
tops and shown all the kingdoms of the world; and as he now 
started to read the special poem written by Whitman and sent 
for this occasion, his voice trembled with emotion at the men¬ 
tal picture of Christ standing in the midst of a household of 
peasants, holding his hand up in the attitude of blessing them 
for the humble meal they had given him as he passed their 
door, hungry and in need of rest. Whitman had taken this 
as the theme of his poem, and called it: 

Camerado 

I reverence thy great spirit, 

O, Camerado. 

Thou wast born of the strength of the tempest; 

It gave thee, too, the gift of its manifold inheritances. 

Thou dwellest in the sweet music of the sea’s whisperings 

And the fellowship of beasts and birds and humankind. 

[ 141 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 

The voices of the trees and the tenderness of the flowers. 
Were thy kindred spirits; 

And the gentler hum and song 
Of the invisible choir of the grasses. 

Thou didst commune with the stars hung o'er the sea 
And on its lonesome shore thy great soul 
Has joined the full, low-drooping moon. 

I am bathed in the harmony of thy joyous life 
And the cast of its mellowed glow. 

O, thou soul of rugged mountain strength, 

Hold me tight until the dawn. 


[ 142 ] 


CHAPTER II. 


Toy Balloons 

What is happiness? One might station one’s self on the 
busiest corner of the world, or on the Champs Elysees of Paris, 
the Piccadilly of London, or the Corso of Rome, and repeat 
the question ad infinitum, receiving such variations of answers 
as to leave the query then open to further argument. In the 
minds of two young women walking very briskly and gaily 
down the Champs Elysees, one handsome morning, along 
towards the close of April, 1882, the question would probably 
have been accorded a luminous reply—and when even two can 
agree upon such a momentous matter and answer in a per¬ 
fectly positive and intelligent manner, we must have a great 
deal of respect for their conclusions. 

One of these two was an American, a brunette of brown 
eyes and very dark hair, with a rosy complexion as of perfect 
health; a slight figure, well proportioned, somewhat taller than 
her companion, who was a Russian—a blonde with snapping 
gray eyes, a fair figure, although inclined to stoutness about 
the waist and chest, scarcely yet a reality. The former was 
about seventeen years of age, the latter five years older. These 
twain were Tessa Breckinridge, of Louisville, Kentucky, 
U. S. A., and Marie Bashkirtseff, of Gavronzi, Russia, student 
artists. 

There was an air of alertness about them, and their faces 
indicated intelligence far beyond the average. Tessa was 
asking Marie the question: “What is happiness?” Marie, 
after reflecting a moment, ventured that first it was youth. 
Then she compromised by conditioning that youth must love. 
In consequence, the first fifteen years would be irretrievably 
lost, because no boy or girl could really love before that time. 
Then, too, love was likely to cease at marriage, which usually 
came soon after its period of inception, but Marie would give it 
ten years, say from sixteen to twenty-six. This qualified and 

[ 143 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


very much limited happiness, but still that was not enough— 
there would be too much happiness with only these restric¬ 
tions—it must be circumscribed very much further, so she 
thought springtime would be a worthy contributor; and now 
she counted on her fingers: youth, love and springtime, and still 
the quantity was much too great, when she considered the 
world’s distances, and tipping her fourth finger back, she said 
Paris, at which Tessa smiled audibly with deep approval. But 
still all these were not sufficient, as there was left the poor 
neglected thumb in its proper place, and finally she burst out 
with: “O, of course, temperament; that distinguishes people 
and sets the crown of jewels on all of the rest.” 

“Well, well,” said Tessa, “Marie, you are a wonder, no 
one but you, with the brilliance of your vast Russian steppe 
mind, would have built such almost impossible conditions about 
that elusive little word ‘Happiness’; they are the toy balloons 
that hold it suspended before our wondering eyes. But, of 
course, I think you are right, because you are describing us, 
you and me, and we are perfectly qualified now except for 
one thing: no man loves us.” 

“I hate men,” said Marie, “they are either coarse or com¬ 
mon—or domineering. My husband, if I ever choose one, 
must be both aristocratic and wealthy, and, too, chivalrous. 
One whom I can feel has a degree of superiority. I would 
even prefer a prince, or one of a royal family. O, to be a 
queen with a Court—the idol of my followers who would wor¬ 
ship me for what I am really worth; for I have talents as 
well as wealth, and a position in society. You know that, 
Tessa. . If Julian would only give me a little more encour¬ 
agement—I need to be continually fed with kind words—and 
approval of what I do. Sometimes I believe he does not 
credit me with being serious enough, that I do not devote 
myself unremittingly to my work. He says: ‘See how 
Breslau does. She succeeds because society has no claims 
upon her, so she gives her time arduously to what is para¬ 
mount in her mind. And it is quite as necessary to do this in 
art work as in any other, there must be no distraction.’ He 
said to me yesterday, after I had been away from Paris for 
a month: ‘Well, here you are again; you only get fairly 
started in something and begin to show your great natural 

[ 144 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 

ability when you are called away and the technique you have 
acquired disappears through misuse, and then when the mood 
suits you and you try again you find that you are rusty and 
then scold everybody, including yourself, because you have not 
made a success. It can’t be done. Tony Robert-Fleury sees 
the same as I do. When you show good results from your 
application he always tells you: “Very good, not at all bad, 
you have great natural talent, you will have wonderful suc¬ 
cess” ; but he knows, and I know, that you will not have this 
success unless you apply yourself uninterruptedly to the task 
as all others must do to master the details of drawing and 
color.’ You know, Tessa, how impatient I am, and you also 
know that these terrible doctors keep sending me away, and 
how unhappy things get in my family. I try to live above it 
all—I am different from the rest of them, and while they 
mean to be kind I don’t like the way they look at life. They 
have none of the artistic conceptions, nor artistic tempera¬ 
ments and cannot understand these things. Was ever anyone 
so unhappy as I? My ambition is unbounded. I can con¬ 
ceive in my mind’s eye the most wonderful subjects for artis¬ 
tic expression, but when I come to make them a reality on 
canvas I find, alas, I am lacking in the touch—the ability to 
express myself. Look at that little Bastien-Lepage. With 
scarcely an effort he can paint the most spiritually sublime 
things in which the serenity and quietude of the pastoral life is 
bewitched by that indescribable, mystic touch of genius that 
transfers it into a picture before which we all bow in admira¬ 
tion. He, too, thinks I fail to get down to the drudgery of 
real hard application, but he realizes that it is in me to become 
famous—if I will. That is the word—will—I have will—who 
can stop me from doing what I elect to do. No one accuses 
me of stupidity. They all say: ‘That Marie, the Russian, 
she knows; she is rich and pretty and can compel others to be 
ladies and gentlemen in waiting at her court. We shall see 
whether or not she will persist in art. It is rather ambitious 
for her to think she can come into Julian’s and overreach 
others who have studied and practiced now for four years 
and who have enslaved themselves doing so.’ I know a num¬ 
ber of these girls are jealous of me, and think because I am 
aristocratic and have a certain social position that Julian and 

[145] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


Tony will flatter me beyond my worth. Well—-we shall see. 
I am sure the public and the critics will not praise me unless 
I deserve it. You know how censorious that Wolff is in The 
Figaro . If God lets me live I shall paint something yet that 
will command respect and approval. My life is so beautiful 
and I have such great aspirations—I know He will not deprive 
me of my just ambition to have this honor.” 

“Why, Marie, how you do work yourself up into an 
unwarranted pessimism,” said Tessa, uneasy at the depth of 
feeling manifested by her companion. “You are young yet, 
and have already received honors, and mentions, and have the 
friendship and inspiration of some of the most noted artists 
of the day. I think you have every reason to be proud and 
should be satisfied with what you have thus far accomplished. 
Tony has not the reputation of being a flatterer, and cer¬ 
tainly Julian is not; and if they have both said from the very 
beginning that you have great natural talent, I should take 
them seriously and doubly exert myself, if I were you, to pro¬ 
duce what is really significant. You have been to Italy, and 
to Spain, and have seen the best there is in classical work, and 
with all the inspiration of the Louvre and the Luxembourg, 
with your inherent enthusiasm, I shall be very much mistaken 
if your name does not take a very honorable place in the ranks 
of our modem artists. Don’t be so terribly downcast at the 
slightest provocation—if Julian scolds you he does it for your 
good only. I wish I had half your talent and temperament— 
but Americans cannot be Russians. We are too practical and 
prosaic. You have the genius to smash things when they 
don’t suit you, while I must be contented to assume a philo¬ 
sophic attitude and be calm and serene when the moon has a 
veiled face. Well, here we are at Julian’s—now be a good girl 
and show him that you mean to reform. Remember how the 
blossoms of the horse chestnut trees in the Champs Elysees 
smiled on us this morning as we walked along, and remember 
also that all we need now to make us perfectly happy is to 
find men who will love us.” 

A number of the young women students were talking and 
joking together, waiting for class time, and as the morning 
was slightly chilly they were gathered around the stove, in 
which there was a little fire to make the place comfortable. 

[ 146 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 

When Tessa and Marie came in they all said “Good Morn¬ 
ing,” and, “Listen to the story that the Spaniard heard about a 
young fellow over at Gerome’s—it’s a good one.” There is a 
very young Englishman there taking his first lessons; he is 
not over fourteen, and small in size with a very smooth, girl¬ 
ish face. They call him little Fox. He came in yesterday 
morning somewhat early, and only two or three, aside from 
the young woman model, were there sitting around the stove, 
warming themselves. When nearly class time the model com¬ 
menced to remove her wraps—the other students in fun put 
her hat and veil on young Fox and he looked so charmingly 
girlish that they thought they would use him for a little fun 
with one of the students who had not yet arrived—a French¬ 
man, who was terribly soft on the girls. They took the model’s 
long outside wrap and put it around Fox and so he looked 
entirely like a charming young woman. To hide his feet they 
set him in a chair and wrapped one of the small rugs about 
him as though to protect him from the cold. Then one of the 
students took his easel and palette and began to make a study 
as though he was doing serious work. At this the young 
Frenchman came in and was at once attracted by the stranger 
who was very young and good looking, and as the particular 
failing of this student was for English girls, he was at once all 
courtesy and curiosity, and came up close, saying: “Good 
morning, Mees, eet is quite chilly,” etc., trying to strike up a 
conversation to which the party addressed paid no particular 
attention, and the artist who was making the study became 
very impatient, apparently, at the interruption and told him to 
go away—that the girl was English and could not understand 
what he was saying. He was obdurate, however, and every 
time the artist rested for a moment, he would dart up again 
and look at her in a very pleading way, and he offered to bring 
a student who could speak English, as an interpreter. Finally, 
after an hour or so, when he thought the sitter looked tired, he 
ventured to ask her if she was hungry. As she nodded affirm¬ 
atively, he rushed out and got some cherry tarts which she 
ate ravenously, winking to the observing students who sat 
about, enjoying the farce. Then as a final venture he asked 
her to go to lunch with him, but she refused, saying that her 
mother never allowed her to lunch with a man alone. At this 

[147] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


he suggested that the model go along also, to which she 
assented. The Frenchman very much elated and thinking he 
had the vast advantage that time over all the other students, 
left to fix himself up so as to present an imposing figure when 
they should go out together at lunch time. 

Now little Fox divested himself of his feminine attire 
and pasesd out, leaving the model to await the return of the 
Frenchman. When he came back he looked inquiringly about, 
but the model said the English girl had gone out—she did 
not know where, and so he commenced to look about in all of 
the rooms under the amused observation of the students, 
including the little Fox, and finally, in despair, he caught the 
facial expressions and realized that he had been hoaxed and 
was in for a good lot of ridicule. It finally dawned upon him 
when glancing sharply at the face of little Fox, that he was 
the guilty one and his temper went to the ceiling, but of course 
the madder he got the more he was made fun of. Finally he 
retreated and did not have the face to show up again for a long 
time. This story soon went the rounds of all of the students, 
as it was the major part of the lives of many of them to 
originate and carry out practical jokes and this was one of 
the best they had ever heard. Julian and the others did 
not object to good-natured fun and he enjoyed the incident 
as much as anyone. He came up to Marie and said: “Well, 
my ambitious child, what have you to show me today? I shall 
be very happy to know that you have accomplished something.” 

“Yes, papa Julian, I have brought you several things I 
started while I was away. Here is one—a man by the sea¬ 
side; and here is another—a head of Therese. Please say 
that you think there is some good in them, that is—if you 
really think so.” 

“Yes, my child. The head is not at all bad; some of 
the colors do not blend. You should have selected others. 
The old man is somewhat clumsy, but rather well drawn. 
On the whole I can say that you have not wasted your time 
at all. I have great hopes for you now—if you will only 
persist. The fault with these which you are showing me 
now comes from lack of technique—you have the true con¬ 
ception but do not know how to apply it. How many times 

[ 148 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


have I told you this? Now work hard, and in two or three 
years we shall see something.” 

“There, now, Marie,” said Tessa, “you ought to be satis¬ 
fied with that. He could not say much more in praise of what 
you have done, and you have no right to go away discouraged.” 

Marie tried to appear pleased, for she felt in her heart 
that what Julian had told her was absolutely true, and she 
determined to apply herself vigorously. She knew, though, 
that her mother would soon be going to Russia and would be 
continually begging her to go along. If only her father and 
mother could be happy to live together in Paris without this 
continuous strife of recriminations and disagreement. But 
it had always been so as long as she could remember. She 
wondered about Tessa’s father and mother; they were always 
apart, but nevertheless, there seemed to be a great love and 
congeniality between the father and mother and daughter. 

While Tessa and she had been good friends now for a long 
time and lived near enough to see a great deal of each other, 
and their mothers, too, were quite congenial, she had never 
asked and had not known much of Mr. Breckinridge. Tessa 
had always said that he was a very busy lawyer and came when 
he could to England and the Continent, and that they now 
expected him any time for quite a long visit. For the past 
two or three years, aside from his regular occupation, he was 
very much interested in an experiment in a religious and social 
direction which prevented him from leaving the United States. 
She informed Marie also that she and her mother would prob¬ 
ably return with him this trip, as he had expressed a wish to 
remove from Louisville to Chicago—the latter being a very 
prosperous and rapidly growing city in which there would 
undoubtedly be interesting developments in music and art. 
This would not at all prevent the mother and daughter from 
returning to Paris as often as they wished. 

Mr. Breckinridge as a young man in the sixties—a stu¬ 
dent at Bonn University, in Germany—had met the young 
lady who afterwards became his wife, on a little trip he had 
made to Paris during his vacation time at Easter. She was 
then a student of music from America and it did not take 
long for them to decide that all of the elements of happiness 
which Marie and Tessa had thought essential were theirs, 

[ 149 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


and love soon ripened into marriage. Their honeymoon was 
a trip to America to present themselves to their parents, to 
obtain their blessing and then return to their studies. How¬ 
ever, Tessa soon made her appearance on the scene and caused 
another adjustment in their lives through which Mr. Breck¬ 
inridge returned to Louisville to devote himself to his father’s 
legal work and prepare to inherit a business as well as a 
fortune. 

Of course he could spend considerable time in Paris and 
was always faithful in doing so, and his little daughter grew up 
to love her father and to look forward to the times of his 
coming. His last previous visit had been in the summer of 
1879, about three years ago, and at that time he had been very 
happy in talking about what he called the Walt Whitman 
Brotherhood in Chicago, which he had been very instrumental 
in organizing and for which he visited Brentano’s repeatedly 
to get and have shipped a lot of new books on the most 
advanced thought of the day, both in science and philosophy 
and in social economics as well. Many of these were ordered 
from London, as the English text and translations were of 
course preferred. Then, too, he sent editions of fiction and 
poetry as well, as the world was now producing prodigiously 
along these lines. Marie was deeply interested in all of these 
doings of the Breckinridge family. They were so different 
to the intimacies in the lives of which she was the most cog¬ 
nizant. Her family was at variance and could not agree in any¬ 
thing; indeed, she herself was as far removed from them 
excepting as to the bare existence in life through eating and 
sleeping under the same roof, as though no relationship existed. 
Marie outwardly observed the form of religion of the Russian 
church of the aristocracy—but only in form. She had no 
deep-seated convictions about it, and often in her moments of 
discouragement told God that He had a most unfortunate way 
of offending her. She was superstitious, as many educated and 
apparently sensible people are—believed in omens, and certain 
happenings as foretelling unfortunate events; visited fortune¬ 
tellers and was rejoiced or completely upset by what they said. 
Tessa was like a breath of fresh air to her as far as all these 
things were concerned. She made no avowals of religion, but 
was willing to attend service at the Russian Church with Marie 

[ISO] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


and spent her time admiring the costumes and artistic beauties 
of the occasion. Marie, of course, did the same, but called 
it religion and the satisfying of her conscience to worship God 
through the mere semblance of such worship. 

Tessa was her father’s own daughter, and the ideas he 
had instilled into her mind from her earliest days, to do her 
own thinking, had produced the marvelous result of making 
her independent in many other things besides religion. She 
knew she had Marie’s respect on this account and realized that 
Marie had selected her from all the others to make an intimate 
of because she could depend on the sincerity of utterance with 
which Tessa conversed with her in moments of her greatest 
need. 

Now came another change in Marie’s life, and one which 
gave her greater opportunities. This was her removal to a 
house in Rue Ampere and this gave her greater privileges 
than she had ever before enjoyed. Not only was she given 
possession of the entire second floor, with a studio, and her 
own separate private parlor and living rooms, but there was 
a delightful garden in which she might do all of her art work 
in the open air unless she preferred to go elsewhere. Now 
she could have her model come directly to her own house, 
and Tessa’s great delight was to pose for her hour after 
hour, as the experience which she thus obtained was of 
great value to her. Of course they kept up their lessons in 
technique at Julian’s, but Marie’s social position enabled them 
both to have the calling acquaintance of men like Robert- 
Fleury, Bastien-Lepage, Carolus Duran, and the sculptor, 
St. Marceaux. These came and went like good friends and 
criticised off-handedly everything at which Marie ventured to 
give them a glance. No sooner had the family gotten well 
settled, however, than the mother was called to Russia for the 
summer, and from there made constant appeals to her daugh¬ 
ter to follow. These Marie resisted until the autumn came, 
and then took her leave for an indefinite time, much to the 
disgust of Julian and all the others who were most interested 
in her career. 

The early summer gave to Tessa and her mother the great 
pleasure of a visit from Mr. Breckinridge, and they now set¬ 
tled to a period of seeing the life of Paris with him. As long 

[ 151 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


as Marie remained she was a partaker of their pleasures, for 
she liked Mr. Breckinridge very much and he became a father 
to her as well as to Tessa. It was their delight to go together 
in the early evening to the Parc Monceau, which was not far 
from Marie’s new place of residence, and enjoy the green grass 
and the trees. There, too, they could often have the company 
of Bastien-Lepage and Tony Robert-Fleury, both of whom 
enjoyed the hospitality of Marie’s home. Marie was much 
discouraged, as usual, about her ability to produce a painting 
worthy of a good place in the Salon, but the more she thought 
about the homely street life of the gamins of Paris, the more 
strongly was she attracted by it, and this summer, while she 
might go to the adjacent park and drive up and down the 
boulevards and even venture into distant and unknown parts 
of Paris, she became greatly absorbed in these children of 
the streets. 

Sitting in the park one evening, after a drive with her 
friends, they were talking enthusiastically about the impres¬ 
sions received, especially in the avenues about the Arc de 
Triomphe, where they observed and witnessed all kinds of 
street life with which Paris is so replete. Of course Bastien- 
Lepage had found the clear atmosphere of the country around 
his own home town, Damvillers, to be the one place which 
could charm his imagination; but to Marie, who was looking 
closer at hand, here seemed to be an uncultivated field to which 
she could give her undivided attention and produce some¬ 
thing worth while. Mr. Breckinridge gave his warm approval 
to this suggestion—that she find a special interest in these 
subjects. There was very little of this kind of work done 
and at nearly every salon the subjects were everything paint- 
able excepting that of the play-life of youngsters in a great 
city like Paris. In fact, he could not recall anything of the 
kind and if the earnest suggestiveness of such childish expres¬ 
sions could be caught unawares the effect on an artistic public 
would be spontaneously favorable—quite a novelty, in fact— 
quite different from the sea of portraits, and studies from the 
nature of country life which occupied the attention of the vast 
majority of artists. To this approval of Mr. Breckinridge both 
Tony and Bastien assented, and advised Marie to make a try 
at it. Marie only this evening had caught in her mind’s eye 

[ 152 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


two or three groups of boys and girls, and the idea became 
fascinating to her as she thought of the absolute novelty of 
the presentation. Her mind was too fresh and the common¬ 
place, or rather the commonly accepted, too well-worn for 
her to be attracted by it for her supreme effort. She well real¬ 
ized her helplessness when compared with such artists as 
Bastien, who was now in the very glow of his enthusiasm, 
ten years older than she, to be sure, but his mind had never 
worked at such full speed and with results approaching real 
genius. If she could excel in some new avenue of expression 
it would satisfy her intense longing for a unique position 
among the artists of the day. 

Now, as she sat there in the park with her friends, the 
figures of these children scampered to and fro in her mind 
as she had seen them in reality in the streets an hour or so 
before. There are two little fellows walking hand in hand 
along the sidewalk. The elder is only seven, but he is proud 
of his guardianship over the younger. He holds him tightly 
by the hand as he marches along, looking straight before him, 
with a leaf between his lips. The smaller fellow glances at 
those he meets—is observant of the distractions and carelessly 
has the unoccupied hand in the pocket of his little trousers. 

Ah, what a delectable gem this would make, and there 
would be no trouble in getting such children to pose for her 
in her studio or garden at home. She was interrupted in her 
abstractions as she sat there with her friends, rather oblivious 
of the fact of their presence, by the sound of the church bells 
in the Rue Bremontier which came to her as it generally did 
those calm still evenings after the noises of the city had quieted 
down to the serenity of the evening. This stirred the poetry 
in her soul and the figures intensified themselves in her imagin¬ 
ation as she felt the rising tide of enthusiasm within her. Then 
with Tessa and Mr. Breckinridge, after bidding adieu to the 
two artists, she went to her home, where they could sit and 
talk in the moonlight and play Chopin and Beethoven until 
midnight. 

“I shall call my new little picture Jean and Jacques,” said 
Marie, “and I know now that I have decided on something 
which will give me pleasure in accomplishing. You know 
I have had all along a larger idea, and one which captivates 

[ 153 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


me by its emotional and religious nature. It will mean much, 
but I am afraid I shall not have the physical strength to endure 
the hardships of its production. I most desire to paint the 
scene of the morning after the Resurrection in which Mary 
Magdalen and the other Mary will be the prominent figures 
and in whose countenances will be visualized all the depths 
of grief, weariness and despair. More than this: the sense 
of a hopeless personal loss; and then the afterthought of revolt 
against the condition which made such an experience possible. 
Can I do it? Many have tried, and failed. I must have the 
background—must go to Jerusalem and get the coloring. I 
must have the draperies and the garments—all must be true 
in detail so far as possible. The magnitude of it all overpowers 
me and I only dare to presume of its possibility in my strongest 
moments. You know how weak I am, Tessa, and I fear some¬ 
times that I cannot ever hope to live long enough to complete 
any such sublime conception as this.” 

“I should wish to have you do everything which gives 
you the degree of fascination a subject of this kind would,” 
said Tessa, “but I hope more for you from the subjects we 
have been talking about this evening. I sometimes think the 
day of ecstasy in a great religious expression has gone. People 
do not think as they once did, and the art-loving ones, at any 
rate, are largely beyond respect for the superstition conveyed 
in such subjects as you mention. The feeling of hopeless 
despair in finding that your loved one has been permitted by 
God to die an ignominious death is like your own, expressed 
so often to me: that you cannot understand a God who will 
give you all the talents which you possess and then permit 
disease to step in and deprive you of the privilege of develop¬ 
ing them. You have a fine voice and at once the condition 
of your throat prevents the use of your voice; you have 
charming conversational ability and you become deaf; you 
are anxious to go to Jerusalem to paint a scene about the very 
God himself, and the doctors tell you to be very careful 
and not overtax yourself or you will have a serious relapse. 
I do not understand the kind of religion which permits one 
to love and adore a God of this kind. In fact, Marie, 
your religion is a lifeless kind of a burden that hangs about 
you, insisting that it has vitality, when it died long ago and 

[ 154 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


should have been buried forever. The day has come for a 
complete face about in such things where we can realize that 
self-reliance is the best practice, and the assurance of our 
innate ability to make of ourselves that which we most desire. 
You admit to me that you refuse to do what the doctors 
advise you to do—what then can you expect for yourself— 
one must certainly correct one’s infirmities or the weakness 
will get the controlling hand. I think, too, in Central Europe, 
women have not come to a realizing sense of independence and 
equality with men which we have in America, and which is 
also evident in England. I think woman should come out 
from her sheltered position and lay claim to the fact that 
her brain is just as capable of action as man’s, and her place 
in the world’s affairs just as essential. The Church has never 
wished to admit this, and I think it fears the result of woman’s 
growing thought with growing freedom of every kind. The 
Church cannot stand the light of growing thought in any 
direction. It thrives on the passive acceptance of things. 
Just such persons as you are, Marie, who take their religion 
as they do the other matters of first happenings in our every¬ 
day lives—without question. Religious art may be all right 
for such, but I do not feel the thrill for this representation as 
I do for the cogent facts of life, presented by the unerring 
hands of great artists who have taken them into the mind 
through knowing eyes and can then re-translate them by the 
brush and the paint. The painters of the Renaissance had no 
such scientific knowledge as we have today and are excusable 
for many reasons for all the beauty and vision which they put 
into their conceptions of God and His attendants; but now 
we must do differently, and we are doing a vast amount of 
creative work which is not only pleasing to the eye but excit¬ 
ing to the imagination and will greatly incite the generations 
of growing artists to even keener work along these lines. Men 
like Whistler and Sargent and Manet, not to say the names 
of many others, are evolving new schools of painting, which 
in turn will support others. It is all away from what we call 
religious painting, and you will find the work you do in depict¬ 
ing the familiar street life of Paris will be your memorial 
after you have yielded your place.” 

“Why, Tessa, you talk like a revolutionist. I would think 

[ 155 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


you might be one of our fanatical Russians who are forever 
crying for something new—never satisfied with their surround¬ 
ings who talk blindly at times of the ‘little father’ as a mis¬ 
nomer and one really having no interest in the welfare of the 
people over whom he is autocrat.” 

“No, no, you misunderstand me, Marie, I am not a revo¬ 
lutionist in that sense at all, but I believe in a sure progres¬ 
siveness in human thinking. I cannot forget my thoughts of 
one day I visited the Pantheon. Indeed that was one of my 
red letter times when I found my thinking so very much clearer 
for the evidences I saw about me of the development of the 
French people in their freedom of thinking. Here all about 
were the conflict of the old and the new; in the adjacent 
Church of St. Etienne-du-mont was the tomb of St. Gene¬ 
vieve, the patron saint of Paris; one to whom tradition ascribes 
the possession of as many saving virtues as had Joan D’Arc, 
for away back fourteen hundred years ago she was blest by 
God with a divine mission and never failed to protect the 
great city in its times of necessity. Now she sleeps, in mem¬ 
ory at least, in a great Gothic masterpiece, six feet in height, 
built of bronze and gold. Candles all around are perpetually 
burning. Tablets and mementos everywhere testifying of her 
helping grace to many who have come to this place in trouble 
and perplexity and found relief. The hearts of veritable mil¬ 
lions have beat in unison to acclaim her miraculous power 
over their bodies and minds, and the halo of the memory of 
her historical leadership in the earlier years of French national 
life never loses its glow of inspiration. It was Louis XV, 
when recovered from a serious illness, who vowed to build 
a great structure of remembrance to her, and today we have 
the towering Pantheon as a realization of his vow. Strange 
enough, while the life of St. Genevieve has been beautifully 
translated by artists, the greater honor of the French nation 
has been bestowed on those men whose minds drifted far 
away from the conventional religious ideas of St. Genevieve, 
for here lies the immortal dust of such men as Mirabeau, Vol¬ 
taire and Rousseau—greater destroyers of the old and greater 
contributors to the new the world has never seen. They were 
the products of the soul stirring times of the eighteenth cen¬ 
tury which started the world on a decidedly different route of 

[ 156 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


travel than it had ever before known—the birth of intellectual 
freedom. These giants in mind have never grown less, and 
what the classic Greeks were in art and culture they have 
become in creating a hunger for education and democracy 
in men’s minds ever since. As I was contemplating these two 
vastly different impressions that day in the Pantheon a plainly 
dressed, sternly intellectual typed woman of about fifty years 
was going the rounds as I was. Her face bore the marks of 
a life of struggle—of what nature I did not understand until 
we met at a certain place of common interest, when she spoke 
to me, saying: T am glad to find a young girl with her life 
before her interested in the memory of such men as lie buried 
here. You do not know who I am, and perhaps if I told you 
I am Louise Michel you might shun me as most everyone 
does.’ I am an American, I said, and haven’t the centuries- 
old prejudices that many Europeans have. I have heard you 
spoken of as the ‘Red Virgin,’ and that you took a place 
with the Communists here in 1871 after years of school teach¬ 
ing in this city. I knew you had been sentenced to death after 
the trouble was over, and then your sentence softened to 
transportation for life to New Caledonia. Now that you are 
here I suspect that you were finally released after the acts 
of 1871 were forgotten. ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I have come 
back to Paris again to take up once more my fight for free¬ 
dom. It has been a losing one with me, but I feel the courage 
to go along with it, for as long as there is grinding poverty 
in Paris, and in the world, some human beings must sacrifice 
themselves to help destroy it. I cannot yet believe that human¬ 
ity has grown so hopeless as to sacrifice its millions that the 
few may have all the luxuries of life. I shall go on with the 
fight as others have, and am greatly encouraged in my soul 
when I come to this place, as I often do, to think of the 
majesty of these immortals whose names I see—never to be 
forgotten now that the world has unconsciously drifted 
towards them.’ With these words she passed along and I saw 
no more of her, but I can feel still the imprint in my thoughts 
of her strong personality and her unconquerable will. That 
experience is one which convinces me of the truth of what we 
have been talking about. That woman’s ability is as great 
as man’s, for here we have St. Genevieve and Louise Michel 

[ 157 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


as extreme types of those who can sway the thinking of the 
masses. Some relief must come from the present system by 
which rewards go to the few at the expense of the many.” 

“I, too, have changed,” said Marie, “for while I once 
grieved for days over the tragic death of the little Prince 
Napoleon in the wilds of Africa—a man of no force of char¬ 
acter and no ability, yet one whom many in France would 
desire to become the head of the nation—now I sympathize 
with the Republicans, and really in my heart, would regret 
seeing the old order restored. I think an artist, above all 
others, should recognize worth and genius and not allow an 
accident of birth to decide rulership, or the guidance of a 
great people. France has had military and monarchical glory 
enough now to let Democracy try its hand at the affairs of 
State. I believe thoroughly in paternalism as applied by the 
French, to encourage art and literature. Certainly no other 
government has been as successful in attracting students from 
all the world over—and this has helped to make Paris what 
it is. But all that can be done under a republic as well as 
under a monarchy. Give the citizen a chance, or he will 
learn how to take it.” 

Tessa and Marie were glad to find such a growing corre¬ 
spondence in their minds, although of course it was a much 
more difficult affair for Marie to forsake a lot of conven¬ 
tionalities which she had inherited and accepted as unques¬ 
tioned facts of life. Her family life was therefore con¬ 
strained and unsympathetic. The only outlet was to have 
a friend with the air of responsible freedom about her— 
which Tessa had. 

* * * * 

All France was called upon to shed a Nation’s tears at 
the death of one who had, probably, more than any other, 
preserved the republic—Gambetta. What a career had been 
his! and dead at forty-four. A resident of Paris since 1859— 
twenty-three years of his fervent, meteoric life. In the Cham¬ 
ber of Deputies in 1869, he had delivered a speech on the 
republican form of government which commanded universal 
attention and set the thoughts of the people on the idea of 
democracy—prepared a great nation for the then unknown 

[ 158 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


transition which was soon to come. At the crisis in 1871 
he became leader of the extreme left, and vigorously attacked 
the monarchists and the clerical party who desired the return 
of Papal power. Then the long fight of a restless spirit, never 
tiring, always on the alert; active with his voice, speaking 
through his newspaper called “The Republique France” until 
at last under Grevy, being elected President of the Chamber 
of Deputies. Dead on December 31, 1882, and a nation 
stunned by the irreparable loss. Few men during their active 
years had ever been the recipient of so much vituperation and 
calumny, and just as the French temperament had accused 
him and caricatured him in life, it as quickly turned to give 
him a triumph through its unbounded praise when dead, and 
a voiceless, eloquent silence which rang through the ashamed 
consciences of the entire nation. 

Mr. Breckinridge and Tessa were profoundly affected 
by the complete subjugation of the animosities of the different 
factions as they all apparently reacted to a scene of national 
mourning for the week following his demise. Finally, on the 
day of the funeral, January 6th, all departments of France 
evidenced their respect and honor by joining in a great proces¬ 
sion which carried, seemingly, all of the flowers of France 
in token of the universal mourning. Perhaps, outside of the 
expression in America at the death of Lincoln, had there 
ever been such a deeply-evidenced outburst of the sorrow of 
the masses. 

What is there about this temperament that is so scintil- 
lant and outspoken and differentiates the Parisian from so 
many others who visit the city from other parts of the world? 
Here is a great center from which radiates an impulse for 
enthusiasm and accomplishment which grips the world and 
brings it periodically to the fountain to drink of its waters. 
Climate and a geographic centrality doubtless have something 
to do with it; but beyond all is the feeling of a unanimity of 
desire on the part of rulers and ruled alike, throughout all of 
the centuries of its existence, to manifest to the world the 
mental and physical satisfaction which this city affords. 

The funeral of Gambetta was both a panegyric and a 
pageant. While the city buried its great dead with a fulsome¬ 
ness of display and pomp, it also revealed to the world the 

[159] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


depths of an emotional nature which existed, not only for the 
dead but to make electrified the deeds of the living. 

No city has so honored the names of its great departed, 
and the inspiration of having their names and deeds recalled 
at every turn is a continuous incentive to the countless thou¬ 
sands of the young who are seeking an education of some 
kind in that center of art, science, and general culture. This 
had been deeply impressed on Tessa’s mind in the years she 
was under its influence, and while it did not bring a sparkling 
effervescence to her nature, there arose the urge in her to 
become a factor in the unfolding life of that particular spot 
in her own country of which she would soon become an 
integral part. Her father received continually from Chicago 
letters of great length, describing the gradual development of 
the Walt Whitman Brotherhood in which he was so greatly 
interested. 

Ernest Wilmerding, the principal writer, was to her an 
unknown quantity and quality; but from the descriptions given 
her by her father, and through the perusal of his letters, she 
became well aware that some of the French effervescence was 
in his makeup and that he would pursue any idea that got 
into his head until the end of the journey. He was not so 
much older than she—just about Marie’s age—and she could 
compare these two and believe they were alike in many 
respects. If she found herself attracted to Marie she reasoned 
that she would also be attracted towards him. And now that 
this new endeavor had come to take a place in her mind she 
was more pleased than ever at the prospect of removing from 
Louisville to Chicago, for there seemed to be a city of grow¬ 
ing opportunity. She helped her father select the books and 
papers which he purchased at Brentano’s and found also many 
pictures illustrative of the great paintings of the Louvre and 
Luxembourg to send along for the edification of the group. 

Marie called one morning and asked Tessa if she would 
not like to go with her to Gambetta’s late home at Ville 
d’Avray, as Bastian Lepage would be there to make a sketch 
of the chamber, and of Gambetta himself as he had lain there 
at the last. This she was glad to do, for now, in her last 
days in Paris, she desired to know more about the two per¬ 
sons who interested her the most—Gambetta, then Louise 

[160] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


Michel. Why these two? She pondered on this reaction. 
Did they mean anything especially to her? And whither was 
her mind drifting that she could find significance in these two 
personalities ? Or was it something back of their personalities 
that was working in her mind? The effects of those terrible 
days of 1871 were still apparent in all that Paris said and 
did, and the word “Commune” had the wildness of destruc¬ 
tive revolution entwined about it. 

Tessa knew little of life of this nature—she only wondered 
why all the beautiful things that luxury afforded were pur¬ 
chased at such a cost to someone. She saw that “someone” 
in the streets of Paris but it was such a common incident 
that she never inquired into its personal affairs. Did not 
think much about how it existed or what its hopes and expec¬ 
tations might be. Under certain conditions and in peculiar 
stresses this “someone” elbowed with a mob of other “some- 
ones” and raised a terrible cry of protest and then all became 
silence again. Order was restored as the people in easier 
conditions of life were assured. There had been a few “some- 
ones” killed and maimed, plenty of them imprisoned, and sev¬ 
eral transported, but by such instances the law would be vin¬ 
dicated and peace once again flutter its wings on the boule¬ 
vards. So Tessa was glad to go to Gambetta’s home, but she 
also resolved that she would have a talk with Louise Michel, 
to learn what all these upheavals were about. She was sure 
her father would go with her and, too, be interested. 

So here she was with Marie and the two brothers, Bas- 
tien-Lepage and Emilie. What a surprise and disappoint¬ 
ment to find that the great man had lived and died in a place 
so completely without comforts and conveniences. Small, 
low-ceilinged rooms without adequate ventilation; cheap, musty 
wall-paper; old, ragged furnishings of every kind. This was 
the home of the man most honored by all Paris. Here Bastien 
was working faithfully to get on canvas the real truth of 
the finality. In death the face had a great serenity. For once 
in that troubled existence there was no answering word from 
the great brain. The tranquility of death—eternal silence— 
freedom from the “bickerings” of his opponents. Such a 
man asleep could still be harried by these phantoms and then 
awake again to the consciousness that another day would 

[161] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


engulf him in a new sea of troubles; but to such a one lying 
in the coldness of death there could never be a resurrection 
to defense. It was with this mental vision that Bastien painted 
and the face of pallid greatness became the cold, austere peace 
of accomplishment. 

When the crushing sense of the incongruity of it all came 
to both Marie and Tessa—the place where the human figure 
had lain in the bed, the faded carpets and curtains, the odor 
of wilting flowers and the sunshine struggling through the one 
window, as if “smiling at grief”—these were too much for the 
feminine nerves, and silently and tearfully they left the place 
alone to the two brothers at their work. 

In a few days Tessa and her father were walking out 
toward the place of the old Bastile, now marked by a towering 
monument in form of a column of great height with a statue 
of Liberty surmounting it as a token of the broken bonds of 
slavery shattered on that memorable July 14, 1789. Under 
the inspiration of the thoughts and memories which came to 
them Tessa suggested that they continue on to Belleville and 
Montmartre, the home of the working classes, also where they 
would be likely to find Louise Michel. 

“We can end the day at Montmartre,” said Mr. Breckin¬ 
ridge, “and view the city from the heights. This will be a fine 
farewell to Paris, and we shall carry the recollection of it in 
our lives ever after.” 

Walking when they pleased and riding in the tramway 
when tired, they saw a part of Paris which was new to them, 
as it is to the great majority of tourists who keep to the 
boulevards and the locations of wealth and elegance. After 
considerable inquiry they found the abode of Louise Michel, 
and Tessa was able to make herself known as the girl she had 
spoken to that day in the Pantheon and called her attention 
to the great souls who were buried in its vaults. 

“We do not call on you out of mere curiosity,” said 
Mr. Breckinridge, “but being from America we presumed that 
you would not think it intrusive on our part for us to express 
a wish to know you better. I am proud of my given name, 
Thomas Jefferson—it represents the high point of democracy 
in our country—and I am sure he felt a great sympathy for 
the struggle of France in the trying days of its revolution. 

[162] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


There seems to be a tie unusually strong in the struggles of 
these two nations at about the same period, to rid themselves 
of tyranny and oppression and I cannot ever visit Paris and 
the Place de la Concorde without reviewing in my mind those 
strenuous years when liberty struggled with the masters for 
a chance for life. We are, all of us, susceptible to mistakes 
in our ways of doing things, but I believe the main trend of 
democracy for the past century or more has been towards a 
political and religious freedom, although at times it would 
seem that reaction holds the upper hand.” 

The woman was somewhat amazed to hear these words 
from a well dressed and apparently scholarly gentleman of 
wealth, but became inclined to listen, and to talk to him in a 
friendly way. 

“My experience with the so-called ‘upper classes’ has been 
one which leaves no room for confidence in them. What they 
call liberty is freedom for the individual to exploit the masses 
because of his wealth, political influence and the power of the 
law behind him. I hate all of these so-called philanthropists 
and liberals—they are halfway men and the desire to get at 
the roots of the great evils of mankind does not exist in them. 
A drop of ointment now and then to soothe the broken limbs 
and the aching hearts, but no great, tremendous longings of 
resolve to put the wicked system which causes all of the 
misery of the world away forever. This would touch them 
too closely—deprive them of their weapons of power, and 
perhaps bring the possibility of some poor devils, without the 
culture and refinement of life, in their places for a moment 
or so. No, we can sacrifice our lives, as many of us have 
done, or offered to do, apparently beating our heads against 
a wall as insuperable as that of the old Bastile, but when we 
go the ranks will fill again with others until the successful 
day arrives when revolution will cease to be a failure. 

“Do you know that today in the rich, glittering bejewelled 
city of Paris, to which all the world turns in wonder and for 
its pleasures, that out of each one thousand of its citizens one 
hundred and fifty occupy continuously unhealthy quarters and 
three hundred and sixty are cramped for room in which to 
exist. In the faubourgs as many as six are crowded into one 
room. One-third of the thousands of tenants pay rent below 

[163] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


three hundred francs a year. Picture to yourself from Amer¬ 
ica, with your great opportunities, what this means to these 
millions of perishing people in all the centers of Europe. Here 
in Belleville we see the great struggle commence every morn¬ 
ing at four o’clock and the continuous procession from that 
time on of the hundreds of thousands who seek their mere 
existence day after day in the great overflowing life of the 
capital of wealth and fashion. Pardon me, you who are 
strangers of whom I know nothing, but this is my life—I have 
given it to the people, and shall never cease the struggle until 
my eyes are closed to the shadows of the miseries that lurk 
about me at every turn.” 

“We believe in your sincerity,” said Tessa, “and shall 
carry the memory of what you say back with us to America 
where it may bear fruit.” 

Thus they passed on. The striking personality of the 
historic woman clung closely to them both and opened their 
eyes sympathetically to the many things which attracted them 
on every hand. Then as the evening shadows began to fall 
about them they hurried on to the heights of Montmartre to 
view the grandeur of the scene and the gorgeous colorings of 
the twilight, as it cast its rainbows across the city and night 
crept softly and slowly in to take its accustomed place as 
keeper of the seals of the drowsy eyes of humanity. * * * 
The silence of adoration—the great full moon and the wide 
track of a million stars—white above them, yellow below—in 
the great shining Paris, spreading away into distance. Each 
historic building, speaking of the ages and the processions of 
its dead—the Opera, Pantheon, Notre Dame, St. Sulpice, 
Invalides, and the faint roar of the life borne on the breeze, 
seemed the voices of these dead telling of the pride of their 
haunting memories of the past but unforgotten centuries. 
Then back of them the Church of the Sacred Heart—the 
unfinished guardian of the immortal city, taking its place for 
the eyes of the future generations who would also be lost in 
their admiration of the beauty of it all. The old windmills of 
three centuries ago still stood in their places, but like the statues 
of the great human dead all about, they told only of a glorious 
springtime of the past. 

* * * * 


[164] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


The next day the train which carried them away from 
the wonder city of the world moved slowly out of the Gare du 
Nord, and the figure of Marie being lost to them now forever, 
stood, with waving hand in a parting which had been their 
greatest regret. 


[165] 


CHAPTER III 


The Importance of Being Ernest 

More than four years were now passed since the doors 
of the Walt Whitman Brotherhood house had been opened to 
the enthusiasm of youth. The spring of 1879 witnessed the 
birth of its idealism, and now as the autumn of 1883 
approached the child of dreams was walking about in the 
budding promise of young boyhood. It had been a most 
healthy and wholesome child, progressing and developing as 
the young human does through experience, to a more perfect 
comprehension of the life into which it had been bom. How 
unconscious the babe is of its existence, its privileges and its 
opportunities; and only through the dual growth in light of 
opened eyes and in night of its closing ones can it arrive at 
any sense of proportion. The child is largely a creature of 
the desires and opinions of those with whom it comes in near¬ 
est contact—most often its plastic mind is controlled and pat¬ 
terned by those influences. In fact, it seems to be the rule 
rather than the exception, for governors of childhood to 
believe and insist that the young mind shall imbibe the beliefs 
and ideas of the former generation. 

The Walt Whitman child was brought up in an entirely 
different atmosphere. Old Walt himself would not have per¬ 
mitted it to grow rusty on codes and constitutions which origi¬ 
nated in dead men’s minds. Live thought that, perhaps, trans¬ 
lated the truth of ancient acceptance, was surely on a genuine 
foundation of progress; but live thought that accepted as a 
gratuity ancient acceptances with veneration but without con¬ 
viction, was taboo, and with every new day the question was: 
In what respect am I a different being now from yesterday? 
When once one became self-satisfied the flag of revolt was 
run up on the pole of self-examination and the reason for the 
mental stagnation chased away to an atmosphere more fitted 
for its existence. 


[166] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


Of course this all meant that the personalities who con¬ 
stituted the reality of the ideal of this democracy were young 
men of open minds. Thinking, based on the slow but sure 
changes through moods by which an idea once revolved, would 
continue to clarify itself for better or for worse, by examina¬ 
tion in other moods was like the mountain top which revealed 
its greatness only by the universal view which comes in seeing 
it from all directions, in day and by night, in summer and in 
winter. Thus it is to test the value of a thought and, like 
the mountain, which is subject to the changing conditions of 
Nature’s laws, thoughts integrate and disintegrate in the lapse 
of years by the defenses and assaults of the human mind. 

There is no other criterion of judgment. Mankind now 
at this stage of his history, as in no other, was assembling 
itself for the comforts of existence. The cry of gold here, or 
opportunity there was the signal for an onward rush, whereby 
the hunger and thirst for satisfaction of this kind might be 
easily and quickly secured. Peoples were leaving their old 
inheritances for these favored spots wherever they were to 
be found, but carried with them their old customs, and thought 
nought of the strangeness of language and habits of those with 
whom they came into vital contact. Of political ideals there 
was no cognizance aside from the ephemeral one of tremendous 
liberty—freedom from military service and the espionage to 
which they had been accustomed. 

Here was a great, limitless, new country with resources 
inexhaustible, standing on the margins of the great oceans 
with arms of welcome outstretched. These were days when 
the hunger of America for all the rest of the world could not 
be satisfied, and once the tide had turned its way nothing 
could withstand the flood. To cities like Chicago, this tide 
of humanity came like an overpowering army and quickly 
changed its coloring to that of a continental city of old Europe. 
The half million of souls who called it home in 1880, soon 
found themselves engulfed in a constantly increasing stream 
of new faces, and the strange viewpoints of the matured mon¬ 
archies of another world. By thousands upon thousands was 
the population reinforced as each year repeated the zest of 
desire of the old for the new. Now were founded colonies of 
separate nationalities where unknown languages were spoken 

[167] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


in the streets, newspapers printed in strange tongues, churches 
built of unusual designs, while picturesque street processions 
and unique ceremonies were the amazement of the more phleg¬ 
matic stock of the old inhabitants. 

Then came the intrusion of these new elements into the 
residence exclusiveness of the old—the retreat of the sensitive 
ones to other and more remote locations and the gradual 
abandonment of their chosen places to the pushing assertive¬ 
ness of the immigrant. Especially did the neighborhood of 
Walt Whitman House witness this transition. It was a study 
in democracy with which to conjure, and at first the residents 
of the house had been too busy with their own individual occu¬ 
pations to have it deeply impressed on them, but soon the 
obviousness of the fact became apparent in many ways. An 
experiment of this kind could not progress under cover. 
Through the annual Whitman celebrations especially, the pub¬ 
lic became informed of its existence and it slowly but surely 
began to take upon itself the atmosphere of a public center 
to which the perplexed and the uninformed might turn in their 
days of emptiness—where else could these people go with 
their abundance of wants which needed fulfillment of some 
kind? In these four years of its strenuous, growing life the 
original dream of those responsible for its existence had 
expanded into a multitude of ramifications perfectly natural, 
now that there was a buffer of reality allowing them to become 
part of the daily venture. 

The importance of being Ernest brought to that rather 
irresponsible, but terribly, unsophisticatedly sincere young fel¬ 
low of the spring of 1879 the realization of a life of much 
more consistency than the “stuff of which dreams are made.” 
Yet these four years had given to him the maturer qualifica¬ 
tions of life and mind of which he had felt so much the need 
at the inception of the work. Then he was without an educa¬ 
tion excepting of the most rudimentary sort—of the knowl¬ 
edge of human nature he had none, of practical contact with 
the needs and fellowships of a neighborhood of democracy, 
nothing. 

He had observed, of course, the incoming of these new 
human elements into the life of the city, but had not realized 
that they would powerfully change as well as be powerfully 

[168] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


changed by the contact. As soon as he saw the force of what 
was to be, he redoubled his information concerning their home 
conditions, the ambitions and hopes which inspired their emi¬ 
gration. The advantages which came with them to the art 
expression of life were evident, as there was in the mass of 
these people the sparkling effervescence of emotion and 
imagination which was absent from most of the people he had 
known about. 

The call of the members of the Brotherhood then seemed 
to take upon itself the broader scope of a relationship beyond 
themselves, into the wider one of mutual association with con¬ 
genial spirits with whom they found the yearning for a life of 
growing thought. The house was perfectly adapted to the 
larger fellowship. What a wonderful atmosphere had been 
here, as the plans laid in the first days had matured and been 
brought into a colorful reality as room after room had received 
its furnishings through the resourcefulness of the residents 
and their friends. Of course the big lounge was the pride of 
the Brotherhood; for here, not only the comfort of the fire¬ 
place asserted itself for the larger part of the year, but the 
walls had been hung with a number of portraits of men who 
represented certain staunch and outstanding advances in the 
things of life which made them subjects of veneration and 
respect. 

There was Walt Whitman himself, the good gray poet, 
looking kindly and cheerfully down, always with a fatherly 
smile on his venerable face backed by the bushy white hair. 
John Brown, tall and stern, with his piercing eyes and uncom¬ 
promising features. Thomas Jefferson, the earliest and most 
notable of American democrats, and the one who wrote the 
Constitution. Then the mellowness of the face of Ralph Waldo 
Emerson, poet and essayist. These were the worthy products 
of America. 

From across the seas Mr. Breckinridge had sent them the 
solemn but wise Thomas Carlyle, and of course the aristo¬ 
cratic profile of the great critic and writer, John Ruskin; 
while from Germany, the master of the eighteenth century— 
poet, writer, scientist—Goethe. Richard Wagner, too, on his 
way to the highest honors, stirred them all to their best expres¬ 
sion in musical art, and the faraway look in his thoughtful 

[169] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


countenance bespoke a universe of harmony to which he alone 
was the intelligent listener. 

Interspersed with the portraits were the oil and water 
color landscapes of the young men themselves, who took great 
pride in featuring the suburban vistas obtained on the Sunday 
sketching trips. 

The library was now well developed—so much had been 
sent from Europe that practically every line of thinking and 
discussion which occupied the minds of serious people, as 
well, also, as the recognized best fiction of the English and 
French (translations), was to be enjoyed. At this time a 
request was made by one of the representative newspapers 
of the city, to state for the benefit of the reading public the 
facts about and theories for which the Walt Whitman House 
was instituted. The public, at least such part of it as was 
cognizant of its existence, had noted an experiment of a social 
nature taking place within its sight and hearing but did not 
just quite know what to make of it. Such things were really 
unknown quantities, especially in the newer America; and even 
in older Europe and England there was not yet a sentiment 
grown to any great extent of a getting together for any rather 
definite purposes as this appeared to have. In consequence 
there was some curiosity aroused, especially as no one had 
been requested to make his contribution to a new experi¬ 
ment in philanthropy. Helping the poor and unfortunate, or 
patronizing some religious cult was as far as the average edu¬ 
cation had gone. The request for legitimate news of this kind 
was very gladly acceded to and Ernest delegated to furnish 
a written statement of the facts required. He had to confess 
that at the start there was only a very limited scope to the plan 
of operations. A home for a number of similarly minded 
young men who were seeking an education, specializing in the 
particular lines to which their fancies urged them, making an 
attempt in a small way at experimental democracy where a 
test of a close fellowship of race, color, and attitude towards 
common humanity, based on congeniality alone, could main¬ 
tain itself in harmonious contact. The words of John Ruskin, 
supplementing the philosophy of Walt Whitman, furnished the 
simple creed of the Brotherhood and answered very well until 
exterior conditions forced an enlargement of its horizons of 

[170] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


activity. Ruskin had said in cogent words: “Life without 
industry is guilt, and industry without art is brutality.” This 
made labor the law of life, but also, in a more refined sense, 
that it became a labor of beauty, so that all life, which so 
desired, could find its best expression in the fact that to be 
continuously busy with an industry of beauty made for joy 
and not monotony. 

The years of faithfulness to this fundamental proposi¬ 
tion had proven its truthfulness to the Brotherhood, and not 
one of them doubted it as an undeniable proposition for hap¬ 
piness in life. The exercise of the imagination had been a 
favorite theme of discussion around the cheerful fireplace, and 
many were the fancies woven from the flickering flames of 
the burning logs. These were some of the things written by 
Ernest for the newspaper, and he did not forget to tell of the 
large square space on the roof where they could go on the 
hot summer nights and sit under the moon, and stars, talking 
together of the abundance of joy gathered out of their sim¬ 
plicity of life. There, too, was the wonderful garden, for the 
lot upon which the house stood covered the space of a half 
a square, and aside from the trees and shrubbery there was 
this place of growing vegetable life where each could do his 
part in the cultivation. Here was the satisfaction of a 
community interest which gave them glimpses of a side to 
democracy of which they had little thought—producing things 
in common and as common property. Had not this very thing 
been advocated by a few here and there because they thought 
Christ himself had had a vision of something similar and told 
his disciples to practice it? 

“Fundamentals in life are, after all, very simple things. 
The narrating of such a commonplace affair to a newspaper 
as being one of the salient features of a social experiment, 
to many, would seem an indifferent sort of thing to relate— 
but democracy itself effervesces simplicity—it is the very 
essense of a life of this kind. Its merits are notorious. If I 
believe that all labor is dignified I do not belittle myself in its 
occupation, for I must believe ‘that life without industry is 
guilt.’ Am I one who would delegate labor to another that 
I might be idle ? No, I cannot do this and maintain my democ¬ 
racy, for such is not the law of life. I may have qualifica- 

[171] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


tions of a special and particular kind which better fit me for 
certain kinds of labor than others, who also in turn possess 
advantages peculiarly their own. We must arrange a com¬ 
munity work on the basis of fitness. ‘The picture of the con¬ 
struction of a watch passes before me as I write—all of its 
minute and intricate parts perfectly adjusted: jewels glisten¬ 
ing, all the wheels set in motion by the power of a delicate 
spring. In its building it has passed on from hand to hand, 
each a special artisan in the creation of a particular part, and 
when this community of workers has completed its task the 
finished product lies there beautiful and singing with life. This 
will be the test of any finished product: that the beauty of 
joyous, efficient labor must be in and of it. We feel with pride 
and without undue boasting that this fairly represents the 
results, to us at any rate, of our work as a Brotherhood for 
the past few years. That it has been an element of helpful¬ 
ness to the community in the midst of which it has had an 
existence, is certain, because of the enlargement of its original 
scope. We have ministered to the wants of others and, step 
by step, have taken on the functions of an information center 
for the many who have not really known where else to go. 
By inviting certain persons to come to us for occasional visits 
they have been received as social friends, entering into the 
companionship of our fireside, and have perused our books and 
magazines. We have gradually spread the understanding that 
others who so desired were free to come and share our hos¬ 
pitality. We have not refused any whom we really felt would 
not only benefit by this association but who would inspire us 
in return. Many cannot understand the situation, as we do 
not profess to be religious, nor do we say that we are irreli¬ 
gious. God to us is an aspiration, and that is as good a 
definition as any, of what is an attempted conception of some¬ 
thing of which we know nothing. We strive to impress upon 
our visitors the supreme value of individual thinking, and our 
encouragement is the power of suggestion. From the privilege 
of the use of our library came the larger call that we would 
permit our books to be taken away for reading, and this very 
soon caused us to formulate the scheme of a circulating library, 
for which we made a nominal charge to cover wear and loss of 
books. We were astounded at the growth of this plan and 

[172] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


very soon were compelled to recognize it as a legitimate func¬ 
tion of our activity. In fact, nowhere else in the community 
could the standard books which we possessed, be obtained. It 
was only a step, then to find that the reading of these volumes 
created a demand for lecture courses, study classes and musi¬ 
cals, with a final culmination in dramatic groups for play¬ 
reading and discussion, and even attempts at actual dramatic 
performance. There is so much unknown talent which may be 
uncovered and developed when groups of those hungry for 
association in the really fine things of the intellectual life are 
given an opportunity. This is especially true of the better edu¬ 
cated foreign immigrants, who are surprisingly well informed 
concerning the really worth while things in literature and art. 
Fortunately we held within our fellowship the very guiding 
spirits who could minister to these wants, and you can imagine 
what an inspiration it was to have the material at our own 
door with which to foster such congenial associations. It 
sharpens and strengthens our own lives, as well as theirs, to 
have this constant community of minds all striving for a self¬ 
betterment in the knowledge of the refinements of life. 

“Not long ago we were able through the generosity of the 
directors of the art exhibit in Chicago of some special collec¬ 
tion which was here for a limited time, to have a few of the 
pictures sent over here for several days, and the house was 
overtaxed with visitors—delighted with the opportunity of 
once again seeing such things as they were accustomed to in 
the great public galleries of Europe. 

“How limited is our opportunity here as compared with 
theirs—this is one of the disadvantages of pioneering—it seems 
to have made life primitive again and we must build our cul¬ 
ture anew. 

“After enumerating to you, as I have, what we have 
already experienced in our neighborhood contact, I can 
well believe we are only on the threshold of a long line of 
opportunities which will come rapidly in succession and I am 
afraid will tax our ability to the utmost. I am satisfied, how¬ 
ever, that once we have established the fact of success, there 
will be other attempts of a similar character, for I now firmly 
believe this is only the beginning of a permanent feature of 

[173] 


THE EDUCATION OF 

city life where the elements are as mixed as they are here in 
Chicago. 

“I could wish very much that what I have written to you, 
in this hurried and undetailed sort of way, should be of suffi¬ 
cient interest to warrant a call personally some evening, at 
which time you might be a witness of the activity which hums 
around our at-first-anticipated quiet fireside. We can have 
an easy chair and a pipe for you, and our musical brother, 
Fritz, will entertain you with piano and voice under the stim¬ 
ulating influence of the moonlight, should the fair lady be 
about at that time. Or we could have a fine all around talk 
on Rossetti or some other devotee of artistic and poetic emo¬ 
tion which will set us all in the right attitude towards the 
harmony of existence. 

“Choose your own time, for one evening is as good as 
another.” 

♦ * * * 

With this missive despatched, Ernest felt that he had gone 
a long ways towards spreading the knowledge of the Walt 
Whitman idea. He was now so thoroughly imbued, as were 
all the others, with its unquestionable values in the social 
scheme of the day, that it was their greatest ambition to have 
right information concerning the project broadcast so that 
it might be patterned after in every center in need of just 
such stimulation. 

What desperate conditions there were in all of these aban¬ 
doned and despairing neighborhoods. The social contact with 
saloons of the most degrading type—the seemingly necessary 
places of meeting for intercourse; and then the unsocial church 
where dumb idolatry was the spiritual food offered, and 
solemnly and ignorantly accepted. The burning candles were 
the magnets which drew the moths to the flames. Ernest often 
wondered to himself what were these passive, sheep-like people 
thinking to themselves, or saying to themselves as they knelt 
there stolidly, fixing their eyes on the pictures and images 
of the medieval altars. 

He could divine but one thing, and that one thing was 
what had driven him from his own church—the passion for 
eternal salvation and forgiveness of something called sin, but 
which had in fact no reality. What sin is must be defined in 

[174] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


no uncertain way, and now he knew that nothing in life was 
so fixed that it could have the quality of permanency. Sin? 
yes—a thousand years ago; today perhaps, not so bad; tomor¬ 
row, a virtue. Thus did education and development change 
the human attitude, and God’s law must change as well, or go 
into the discard. If ever the imaginations of these sin-seeing 
creatures could be set to work, what a wonderful thing a temple 
of God would become! What these same temples, whose 
candles were flames to these moths, would be were the minds 
of their devotees set free to value the art of the church accord¬ 
ing to its real significance and vitalizing worth. The Brother¬ 
hood often were frequenters of the churches and synagogues 
of the immediate neighborhood, simply for the stimulation they 
would get from association, not only with the people them¬ 
selves but as places of quiet and contemplation. The notice¬ 
able fact to them was that the most degraded elements were 
to be found as earnest and pious in their religious devotions. 
Politicians who were the most notorious grafters, sweat shop 
employers, keepers of houses of prostitution as well as the 
inmates, and frequenters and owners of the numerous gam¬ 
bling dens and tough saloons; all these were on their knees 
doing honor to the Most Holy and High God. This was a 
contradiction of the facts of life and the precepts of religion 
which Ernest and his friends could not understand. And, too, 
they realized that all government, whether monarchy or democ¬ 
racy, seemed after all to be and have been maintained by force 
in the form of an army and the police on one hand and the 
power of the church on the other. Without them and their 
support jointly, the structure would fall. 

The world of intelligence had not advanced so far even 
now, and he remembered the words of the Reverend John 
Dodson on that eventful day in his study in San Antonio: 
“What will become of the world if the fear by which religion 
holds the masses in restraint is removed, through disbelief 
and loss of faith?” Yes, that was it which maintained kings 
and despots of one kind and another in power; force and 
fear, the twin devils which kept the mind of man in subjec¬ 
tion. How different was the result in life when the refining 
influences of culture and intelligence entered into and took 
possession, giving the aspirations for what nature had so 

[175] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


eminently qualified man’s mind. Ernest’s mind had only 
recently been turned to religious and political conditions in 
Spain and he had revolted at the facts he had learned, and 
well knew that the American people realized little or nothing 
about the status in that degraded monarchy. 

Up to 1857 no legal provision was in existence for public 
education, but at that time, only twenty-five years ago, a law 
was passed under pressure of liberals who had asserted them¬ 
selves, and a compulsory education bill passed. It was diffi¬ 
cult, however, for the law to become effective, owing to the 
determination of certain powerful interests to prevent it, and 
in twenty years only twenty-five per cent of the population 
learned even to read or write. One of the accounting causes 
for the condition was the extreme poverty of the working 
classes, the compensation to workers being insignificant com¬ 
pared with that in America. They were unable to save, how¬ 
ever frugal, and were in no condition for such a law to be 
put in operation, as the money necessary to build school 
houses and provide teachers must come from the wealthy 
through taxation. In Spain the wealth largely belongs to the 
religious orders—two-thirds of the money and one-third of 
the property. 

These orders are of course utterly opposed to public school 
education or any education excepting what they furnish them¬ 
selves, the principal aim of which is to strengthen superstition 
and repress scientific and social knowledge. Such schools 
were badly ventilated, without much light and replete in 
medievalism; but even so, a half million children could not 
be accommodated. Sadder yet was the fact that the wages of 
the teachers in these schools, which did not average one hun¬ 
dred dollars a year, were collected from the laboring class, 
many of whom could not earn over three dollars a week! 
Of course the law was a mockery; but the convents where the 
real wealth was, flourished. In the Province of Catalonia 
alone there existed twenty-three hundred of these institutions. 
In the cathedral at Toledo there is an image of the Virgin, 
the cost of whose wardrobe alone would be sufficient to build 
hundreds of schoolhouses. It is almost too impossible for 
belief that the Spanish church still deals in the infamous graft, 
known as indulgences, called “Bulas,” selling at fifteen to 

[176] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


twenty-five cents a piece, by which the buyer is pardoned for 
his past sins; but these are only good until he sins again. 
These “Bulas” bring millions of dollars every year to the 
church of Spain. Then the income from the sale of scapulars, 
charms and candles which is found throughout the world, but 
to no such extent elsewhere as in Spain and Portugal and Italy 
where the greatest ignorance exists. It is therefore not to be 
supposed that a power which derives its wealth from ignorance 
and superstition will welcome public schools, which would 
sooner or later spoil the game and endanger the life of the 
despotic government as well. 

These were the twin devils at work: the politician and 
the church performing their deadly tasks hand in hand. These 
conditions could not exist with a free people living under a 
constitution of democracy, yet Ernest felt his indignation 
surge within him as he thought that after all these years of 
enlightenment and education, the world—even the little oart 
of it surrounding the Walt Whitman House—was struggling 
with the reaction of the past and democracy itself must be on 
the lookout lest it be strangled by the monster of a thousand 
tentacles. 

He knew the cure for it all and the words, “Light, more 
light!” seemed sweet to him as he realized that by the sure 
and certain processes of natural life, humanity would even¬ 
tually stand on summits from which it might gaze on its con¬ 
temptuous past. How impatient man is to transcend. He must 
come to a realizing sense of the millions of years which have 
been required for him to obtain the foothold of intelligence he 
now possesses. He may now know, as he never has been sure 
of before, “that there is nothing hidden which shall not be 
revealed”; and, too, that he is only a step—not a finish—in 
the scheme of evolution of process through mind and matter. 
No physical brain which does not grow in convolutions by 
pressure of thought—no thought that can expand except 
through this larger brain. 

Here were the significant facts which science had 
revealed: The mammalian brain exhibits in the different 
groups, a steady growth in complexity from the reptilian to 
the human. The degree of development of the different 
organs within the group of mammals is dependent upon their 

[177] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


functional activity. The frontal lobe of the cerebrum upon 
which probably many of the higher functions, such as. speech, 
depend, are best developed in man. The human brain is larger 
and heavier relatively to the size and weight of the body than 
that of any other animal; largest in the white races, smallest 
in some of the Central African savages. The surface of each 
hemisphere of the human brain is marked by elevations and 
depressions. The elevations are known as convolutions, which 
serve to increase the actual surface without increasing the size 
of the brain. The number and size of these convolutions are 
in direct relation to the intellectual development, increasing 
throughout the ascent of the mammalian scale and reaching 
their highest complexity in civilized man. 

How egotistical all these religious conceptions were which 
revolved about and concerned the absolving from sin and 
salvation of the individual man, no matter how coarse and 
ignorant he might be. It revealed clearer than any Bible 
revelation could, that the whole scheme was devised in the 
cruel and cunning minds of rulers and priests whose sole 
aim was to keep the masses in subjection everywhere. What 
would be the nature of the ultimate revolt against all of this 
mind tyranny? Already rumblings were heard as of distant 
thunder in the approaching storm. 

The French Revolution was one of these thunder claps— 
the Paris Commune another; and in many avenues of thought 
men were discussing the weakness of the systems which kept 
liberty from the people. What more potent agency for the 
possession of this liberty than the power of the individual 
mind to formulate for itself—to take hold of theories and 
separate the good from the bad, the practical from the fanci¬ 
ful, and upon these lay the foundations for a newer civilization 
of sense, justice and harmony. For what purpose was all the 
proselyting being done in the name of God and Christ in for¬ 
eign countries remote from what is called the Western Renais¬ 
sance? Could it be that commercial advantage for the future 
was the underlying cause—and would the advent of these 
western ideas in the ancient parts of the world create a demand 
for the trade articles which the manufacturer could profitably 
furnish? There was already apparent the possibility of tre¬ 
mendous competition between the leading manufacturing coun- 

[178] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


tries of the West for markets in which to dispose of their 
products. England, essentially a country of factories, must 
support its people by reaching out, and so with America as 
well, there would soon be a surfeit of goods. All these things 
passed through the contemplative mind of Ernest as he was 
trying to follow the drift of events and observing the strangle¬ 
hold which church and state had on the people. And now 
was surely approaching that other demand: the growing power 
of industry to reap its profits through combinations and the 
resourcefulness which the head masters of the great corpora¬ 
tions abundantly possessed. These men, too, sat in the pews 
of the churches and dictated as well the councils of the legis¬ 
lators, therefore their policies would be largely for the weal 
or the misfortune of the workers who were at their bidding. 

The study of such growing conditions which affected the 
welfare of the majority would therefore become one of the 
greatest importance, and Ernest decided that it would be a 
part of his growing education to inform himself fully on the 
economic theories about which there was already great 
discussion. 

The time was now approaching for the arrival of 
Mr. Breckinridge. He and bis family had reached Louisville 
early in October and he was making his final arrangements for 
removal to Chicago, where he could feel more free to go on 
with the interesting development in which he had taken such 
a responsible part. Then there would be the mother and 
daughter also, and from the information Ernest had received 
from the father Tessa would likely become a very active and 
ardent participator in the affairs of the Walt Whitman atmo¬ 
sphere. Arrangements were made for the family to reside at 
St. Caroline’s Court Hotel, a very prominent and socially 
qualified residential hostelry not more than a mile away, so 
that contact might be easy and frequent. 

* * * * 

One of the brilliant men of the English coterie who had 
lent much to the development of an art sentiment in his coun¬ 
try was Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who had just died at the early 
age of fifty-four, leaving surviving and in the midst of their 
glorious years of production those friends and fellow workers, 

[179] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


William Morris and Edward Burne-Jones. John Ruskin, too, 
was alive and Rossetti’s friend, although at the time Ruskin’s 
productiveness was not as sure as that of the others. In 
America Whitman was vigorous and prolific in his utterances; 
and in Russia Tolstoy had experienced so much of life as to 
have expressed contempt for it and had threatened suicide. 

The influence of this strangely constituted man, Rossetti, 
upon the development of a newer sense in art expression was 
of the highest. Himself an uncertain student—having the 
attributes of a genius but not of a master—he brought the 
romanticism of his Italian inheritances into the more staid 
atmosphere of England, and completely diverted the efforts of 
the budding art forces into entirely new fields of operation. 
He was restless, emotional, impatient. These attributes were 
more the elements of genius than the slow plodding methods 
of the master who would excel in technique, and with an 
imagination devoid of eccentricity. Rossetti was not without 
natural talent, as indeed he could not be and attract strongly 
such a nature as Ruskin’s, and to the latter’s patronage and 
friendly criticism was a great amount of Rossetti’s encourage¬ 
ment and early success due. Then, too, he was lovable, had 
a personal magnetism, was prodigal in his friendships and his 
foreign sense of romanticism attracted the attention of many 
to him. Aside from the painting art, he possessed the faculty 
of expressing himself as a poet, and his original work as poet 
and painter were both tinged with a shading of the quasi- 
mystical conceptions of life as it might have been lived in the 
time of King Arthur, or existed in the mind of the great 
Dante when he wrote his Divina Commedia. 

All of this was a unique and beautiful inheritance, and the 
English mind was well prepared to absorb it. There come 
periods in the history of the world of art when there is a grow¬ 
ing hunger for new forms of expression, or a new school as 
the term is, and just at this time in the late years of the fourth 
decade of the nineteenth century the psychology was well set 
for a departure of this kind. The young artists were all long¬ 
ing for a new expression and the banding together of Rossetti, 
Millais and Holman Hunt as searchers for a new principle in 
art led to a “League of Sincerity,” which became afterwards 
known as the “pre-Raphaelites,” representing a type of creative 

[180] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


realism attempting to apply poetic interpretation to history 
with a patient devotion to details. 

Ruskin had done his powerful and effectual part in edu¬ 
cating the modern mind of that time to a point of welcoming 
a revolution in art expression, and when these young men 
proved themselves to possess both imagination and an ability 
to create another form of presentation they were graciously 
received in the estimation of a large element of the best minds 
of the time. True, Ruskin’s ethical sense of values in esthetics 
was not the equivalent of Rossetti’s luxuriance with its sug¬ 
gestiveness of sensualism, but these were only two diverging 
ways by which men of individualistic temperament could look 
at art’s interpretation. 

These sentiments were being expressed by Ernest in an 
evening’s talk to a group collected around the fireside late in 
the autumn. He had surpassed himself in his ability, not only 
to collect and assort the important facts of his studies in his 
own mind, but he had cultivated the faculty of lucid presen¬ 
tation which conveyed these facts to others. After he had 
once acquired the ease of expressing himself and the confi¬ 
dence that what he said was of compelling value and respected 
by his associates, he grew more animated in his leadership and 
took great interest in sipping, like the bee, the sweetness of 
the flowers of knowledge regarding the lives and the theories 
of the men who were giving thought and expression in their 
own peculiar way to the development of the imagination of 
the world through art. Therein lay, of course, the highest 
expression of life, and he was true to the conception of the 
San Antonio days that this would be the foundation upon 
which he would build. 

The lights of the room were turned down and the flicker¬ 
ing gleams from the burning logs in the fireplace shone and 
danced on the faces of the highly interested audience. Ernest 
was completely absorbed in his delineation of Rossetti and 
his influence on the mid-century thought of England and did 
not notice the quiet and unobtrusive entrance of a group of 
three persons into the room, nor their absorbed interest in 
what he had to say. Just as he had reached the point of com¬ 
parison of Ruskin and Rossetti above noted, he cast his sur¬ 
prised glance on the smiling face of Mr. Breckinridge and saw 

[181] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


beside him the intellectual and highly bred features of two 
women whom he instantly conjectured to be Mrs. Breckinridge 
and Tessa. He faltered and seemed at a loss to continue— 
indeed, he could not do so, and with a quick impulsive move he 
grasped Mr. Breckinridge’s hand in a joyous greeting and was 
soon in the new comradeship of the other members of his 
family. In turn the members of the group were made 
acquainted with the newcomers, and a feeling of intimacy and 
friendship was soon established, as the women of the Breckin¬ 
ridge family were both cordial and gracious and gave every 
evidence of the noblesse oblige which was a part of their 
natures. They all demanded that Ernest should proceed with 
his talk and would not allow him to desist, as they said it was 
their entrance or initiation into the fellowship and they would 
consider well their first impressions. 

This came from Tessa, who expressed herself in a roguish 
but determined sort of way, for she saw that Ernest was 
embarrassed and rather enjoyed his discomfiture. Of course 
Ernest was at the age of romance, and as his mind had been 
dwelling on a very romantic subject in studying Rossetti, he 
was just at the stage where a girl with all of the attributes of 
Tessa would throw him somewhat off the balance of his mental 
dignity for a little. Ernest of course was not the unsophis¬ 
ticated youth of nineteen who had gone to San Antonio with 
a one-track mind as his principal possession. Now, thanks 
principally to Tessa’s father, he had acquired a greater stock 
of good solid information and knowledge in these four years 
than he had ever dared expect would be his to possess and 
make use of. Naturally tall and now well proportioned, he 
was the picture of bodily health and in common with the 
fashions of the day amongst artistic young men of Paris he 
had grown a beard to a gentle sloping point, a la Van Dyke, 
which gave him a spiritual suggestion in keeping with his avo¬ 
cation of poet and teacher. He felt that he must now assert 
himself, no matter what the embarrassment might be, as, if he 
showed the “white feather” at the first contact with this girl, 
he never would gain the confidence in himself which he should 
have in her presence. Somehow it was as much the “foreign 
air” about her appearance and actions which made her seem 
so superior, and he did not doubt that she knew as much 

[ 182 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


or more about Rossetti and the different painting schools as 
he did. 

She had lived nearly all her seventeen years in the atmo¬ 
sphere of the art spirit; was the companion and friend of 
Marie Bashkirtseff, and through this acquaintance had met 
such eminent French artists as Bastien Lepage, then at the 
height of his success as a painter of scenes of nature from the 
country about Damvillers, his village home. He felt that 
Mr. Breckinridge would respect him more if he showed his 
ability to take up the thread of his talk and go along with it, 
and so he resumed speaking at the right moment, when the 
group settled down just as if it expected him to finish out the 
evening. He remembered that he had last spoken of the com¬ 
parison between the attributes of Ruskin and Rossetti in their 
conception as to the basis of art expression, and he had indi¬ 
cated that Rossetti’s mind pointed towards a luxuriance of 
expression as contrasted with Ruskin’s rather puritanical 
trend. Now the same tendency was observable in his poetry. 
Verses like: 

'Where in groves the gracile Spring 
Trembles, with muted orison 
Confidently strengthening, 

Water's voice and wind’s as one 
Shed an echo in the sun, 

Soft as Spring — 

Master, bid it sing and moan ” 

Or again: 

“ Vaporous, unaccountable 
Dreamland lies forlorn of light, 

Hollow, like a breathing shell.” 

gave an impression of something elusive and formless, like an 
indescribable reality that was no more of a reality than a 
dream, and yet a feeling that in some unknown realm it was 
or had existed. The poem called “The Blessed Damozel," 
written at the age of twenty, was a simple, concrete expres¬ 
sion of lofty spirituality and is typical of the “League of Sin¬ 
cerity" as pertaining to both poetry and painting. His mind 
from the beginning was in accord with the mystic and trans¬ 
cendental, yet withal possessing a metrical power and command 

[ 183 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


of rhymes in the unquestioned good taste of the genius of 
construction. 

The greatest blow that came to Rossetti was experienced 
in the death of his wife in 1862 , after a short but ecstatic union 
of about two years. She had been his model for ten years or 
more and was extensively featured in the many beautiful 
things he had produced in painting as well as in poetry. After 
her demise he wrote his most ambitious work called “The 
House of Life/’ consisting of one hundred and one sonnets 
inspired chiefly by his love for her and his sorrow at her 
untimely death. In them this luxuriance of imagery and lan¬ 
guage assert themselves in a royal prodigality. Indeed he was 
called the painter’s poet from its constant appeal to the eye, 
making, as someone has so finely said, “a kind of poetical 
tapestry, stiff with emblazoned images.” In word coloring, as 
in painting, he was the best of the groups with whom he asso¬ 
ciated and no one could read his verse or view the work of 
his brush without having the sense of companionship with 
a fellow spirit of the order of a Velasquez, a Titian or a 
Rubens for his coloring. 

He was called the painter’s poet, he was also called with 
equal propriety the poet’s painter, for he excelled in both, and 
as his years unfolded themselves it became difficult to deter¬ 
mine the degree of differentiation of greatness between the 
two. In both he possessed and asserted mastery of color, 
dramatic force, passion, mysticism and a symbolic touch, in 
later years an expression all the more voluptuous than the 
earlier ones of asceticism. As I read of his life there comes 
before me the picture of a beautiful garden in which a plethora 
of brilliantly hued blossoms vie one with the other in a con¬ 
tinuous expression of outspoken colors, never resting in their 
prodigality of production until the chill winds of approaching 
death give the sign of dissolution. With him it was this never- 
ceasing activity of creation, and today the world is the richer 
and finer for his having been a part of it. 

There are eras in the development of the evolution of the 
mind that a point of mood is reached when, like turning a 
sudden comer, is revealed newer processes of Nature’s unfold¬ 
ing, and it would appear that subsequent to the Napoleonic 
episode there was bom into the ranks of humanity a brilliant 

[1841 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


galaxy of men and women whose genius would come to flower 
in the generation of which they were a part. One has only 
to inspect the birth lists of the years from 1815 to 1850 to find 
a multitude of great names whose thought has mightily 
influenced the culture of the world. It was the Age of 
Pericles in blossom again, and while the advent of a new 
individualism developed as well, the latter was of not suffi¬ 
cient influence until the death of men of Rossetti’s type, as to 
cast a shadow, and blight the new renaissance of literature 
and art. 

The materialism of the world just now is commencing to 
assert itself as never before, because the enticement of new 
inventions and productive commercial enterprise is winning 
the attention of young spirits who would otherwise be found 
in the ranks of a spirituality broadly defined. I believe it is 
the mission of the Walt Whitman Brotherhood to help main¬ 
tain an equilibrium in the tastes and desires of men to avoid 
a riot of meretriciousness which will entirely destroy idealism 
of thought and purpose. It must be for us 

“Undying life, 

With its flickering spark, 

Lit from the fire of heaven 
That ne’er grows cold, 

Sleeps and dreams 
Of the sun, 

Whose calling, coming closer 
And speaking louder, 

Rouses the sleeping spark 
With the breath of a gentle wind 
That blows it 
Into glow again.” 

With these final lines Ernest ceased speaking and there 
was silence for a moment or two, when from the adjoining 
room was heard the sound of the piano and the full resonant 
voice of Fritz in Schubert’s unforgettable “Du Bist Die Ruh,” 
sung in English : 

“My peace thou art—thou art my rest, 

For thee I yearn—with thee so blest; 

[ 185 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


Enter mine eyes, this heart draw near, 

O come, 0 dwell forever here” 

Then with more music in which members of the brotherhood 
sang as a quartette, the evening ended in a feeling that the 
Breckinridge family would be welcomed into all of the future 
inner life of the sanctuary. 

Ernest was invited to walk over to St. Caroline’s Court 
with them, and as it was a fine bracing evening with a full 
moon shining, he was glad to do so. This gave him the pleas¬ 
ure and the opportunity of becoming a little more intimately 
acquainted with Tessa, who possessed the bright, sparkling, 
effervescent temperament of the tutored Parisian. As soon 
as they were beyond the gate, she said: “O, such a perfect 

night; the same moon that Marie and I would watch from the 
Parc Monceau.” 

“Yes, how you must feel your separation from all these 
things to which you had grown accustomed, and especially 
your companionship with such a brilliant girl as Marie Bash- 
kirtseff,” said Ernest, “your father has told me much about 
your art life and associations under her stimulating influence.” 

“Yes, it was an experience—and yet I would not choose 
it as the supreme thing in life. I am glad to have had the 
continental viewpoint of things, especially of coming in con¬ 
tact with and knowing how titled and nobly descended people 
look at life. The inheritances are rather arrogant and inclined 
to ask a great deal in deference and service from the middle 
class and the proletariat. I think I came away from all this 
with very profound convictions that the world needs a lot of 
real democracy to start it on the way to better things—a more 
just arrangement of society, to say the least. You may think 
this a very unusual conclusion for a young woman like me to 
attain to, but I have thought very seriously about one’s deter¬ 
mination as to what constitutes, after all, real values in life, 
and I feel I must part with many of the things which seem to 
be necessary to exist, free from the ennui of which so many 
complain. I do not say that Marie is intensely of this type— 
her art aspirations excluded much that would otherwise have 
obtruded. But the temptation to avoid responsibilities—if one 
may call them such—is very strong on the Continent. In 

[ 186 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


England the sense of what you may call puritanism—although 
I should now in defining it separate the religious conception 
and substitute that of plain morality in its place, sets a differ¬ 
ent frame about the picture of life, and there is becoming very 
evident a feeling of responsibility on the part of the privileged 
toward the less favored. William Morris especially has prac¬ 
tically given up everything else in his very busy existence to 
try, and has called attention to the very great relationship 
between art and democracy. He finds in the art expression a 
close alliance with the simplicity of living which should make 
of a great Nation a great Democracy. Also your Henry 
George has attracted the attention of England, and especially 
Ireland, by his rather startling advocacy of the nationalization 
of land as the real leveler of peoples. I don’t know what 
will prove the true antidote for all the troubles of the world, 
but as I study history and observe the stages of the ascent of 
man from mere servility to a few, upward thence to feudalism, 
and then to our present system of capitalism, which is now 
apparently outrun and in the discard, I can see a constantly 
upward trend toward freedom, and that of course encourages 
one to believe that the world is moving humanly, as it moves 
in nature in the processes of evolution, and there may be a 
practical realization of the long sought for and prayed to 
heaven demand for release from the too many impossible con¬ 
ditions of life. Mr. Morris believes that the under dogs must 
be stimulated to a sense of the injustice under which they exist, 
and then an active protest on their part to its continuance. 
So long as the masses are passive and silently submit to their 
doles there will be no social progress. It takes direct action 
to effect any positive reform and I was greatly impressed with 
my contact with Louise Michel in Paris, whom you probably 
know little about, and learned from her the conditions which 
brought about the horrors of the Commune. I am telling you 
these things now so that you will not deceive yourself into 
believing me to be a passive spectator of what is going on 
around. I am exceedingly interested in the work which you 
and father have made a reality of, and shall wish to be a con¬ 
genial part of it if you will permit me to do so.” 

“I had scarcely dared to expect this of you, Miss Breck¬ 
inridge,” said Ernest, “but now I hear it in no uncertain words 

[ 187 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


from your own lips I am wonderfully encouraged, for we need 
the aid and co-operation of forward-looking young women 
and until now have had no material that seemed to comprehend 
the drift of our undertaking. Of course we shall ever be 
active to keep in the trend of the best efforts of the time for 
a demonstration of democracy and need positive natures like 
yours to take the lead.” 

“Well, you may take the first step by stopping formality, 
and call me Tessa. I think we can work better together if 
there is no rstraint between us. 

“That I shall be very happy to do,” said Ernest. “I once 
had a friend named Alice Gardner, of whom you remind me 
very strongly, and it is to her friendship and wonderful advice 
and encouragement that I owe much. She set me to thinking 
straight, and I shall never forget her for it. You remind me 
very much of her—you have the same strong mental char¬ 
acteristics and are about the same age now as she was when 
she left Chicago for the East. I am delighted to have another 
friend like her and I feel sure we shall get along splendidly 
together, and you will be as useful and as welcome as your 
father has been ever since I first met him in San Antonio four 
years ago. Some day I will tell you the amusing circumstances 
under which we met; sometimes a very trivial incident will 
bring about the most remarkable changes in the career of a 
person, and this one certainly did so.” 

By this time they were passing a great stone edifice, not 
far from the hotel to which they were directing their steps, and 
Ernest smilingly turned to them all to say: “This is the place 
where I received all of my early religious training. It is dedi¬ 
cated like all the others of its kind ‘To the Glory of God and 
the Service of Man/ ” 

“Yes,” said Tessa, “the service to man consists princi¬ 
pally in providing for the personal salvation of his soul after 
death, and there is much smug complacency in the attitude of 
church members of this kind. Democracy and art have very 
little to do in the lives of such people; they seem to dwell in 
a sort of a faraway existence in which every responsibility, 
other than the salvation of souls, rolls away to the invisible 
and is forgotten. If there is any one thing to which the 
church needs waking up—it is a sense of the living conditions 

[ 188 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


in a workaday world and some practical attempt toward their 
amelioration. I notice that Protestant churches follow the 
people, moving to new locations as they do, and there is no 
sense of loyalty to a neighborhood. I cannot reconcile this 
with the life of the Nazarene, and if He should return sud¬ 
denly, as your church here is preaching that he will, there 
would be an appalling amount of hyprocrisy discovered hidden 
in these pews. Well, I think you have gotten enough of me for 
one night/’ said Tessa, “I am an irreconcilable, and my father 
says entirely too immoderate in m yfreedom of expression—he 
thinks my years do not justify it.” 

They had now arrived at St. Caroline’s Court and, although 
pressed to come in for a while, Ernest excused himself and 
agreed to come soon to spend an evening with them. They 
parted in enthusiastic friendship and Ernest turned his face 
homeward again in great agitation of mind. What manner 
of woman was this who had suddenly come across his path 
like a flaming torch? He thought of Alice and the old days, 
now seemingly gone forever. Their correspondence, at first 
very keen and illuminating to both, had gradually dwindled 
as each found an absorbing interest in life, and the prolonged 
separation let other things in to take the place of the old con¬ 
fidences, and intervened, to the exclusion of that close and 
lively fellowship which had held them in such admiring friend¬ 
ships. He thought as he walked along the familiar streets: 
Verily the old things have passed away, for never before as 
now had he felt the extreme importance of being Ernest, and 
he was thrilled by an inward emotion of joy. 


[ 189 ] 


CHAPTER IV 


The Gospel of Tolstoy 

The significance of the word liberty as a large part ot 
the embodiment of democracy was becoming consistently more 
clear now, as the years of the decade from 1880 began to wear 
themselves away. The Walt Whitman Brotherhood, and 
Ernest in particular, observed the many “stormy petrels” flying 
about in the economic sky. There was apparent a great con¬ 
flict brewing between capital and labor, and it was now very 
evident that the interest of the Brotherhood must be fastened 
very keenly on both of the great phases of the life for which 
it stood: Art and Democracy. 

At first the world of art furnished them the largest con¬ 
sideration, as the industrial problems had not come to the front 
in the eyes of the world, especially of the English speaking 
world, as they had latterly. Both England and America had 
much to adjust because of the increasing use of labor-saving 
machinery which was being put into operation, at a time when 
the ability of all men to secure work continuously was a prob¬ 
lem of great moment. In some trades, like that of making 
shoes, the improvement in machines had enabled the manu¬ 
facturers to produce many times the amount of finished prod¬ 
uct with only as many, or even fewer, hands. So with coal 
and iron; and the result was that when the great demand of 
the seventies commenced to halt there was soon a surplus of 
labor begging for employment, which was not to be had. No 
fewer than one million men in the United States alone were 
out of work more or less of the time. In England, owing to 
the colonial policy, it was possible to keep perhaps a larger 
percentage of men at work because of the foreign markets 
which the imperial program had created; but the amount of 
wages paid was so low as to keep the laborer and his family 
on the verge of poverty. 


[ 190 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


Now came the great eight-hour question, which was advo¬ 
cated as a partial solution—at least thought so by the work¬ 
men themselves—not only to give employment to a greater 
number by reducing the hours worked from sixteen or less 
down to a stabilized eight in every trade, but believing that 
the fewer hours and greater leisure would be the means of 
lifting the standards of living of the men and their families, 
thereby a greater demand would be made for the articles which 
they would then purchase as the necessaries or luxuries of life, 
as they might be called—for they were luxuries to those who 
had never before possessed them. In this way would be 
increased the number employed. Of course it was very hard 
for the large employer to see things from these standpoints, 
as the curtailment of hours seemed to him like the cutting 
down of results and he knew that in many cases the demand 
for the shorter hours would mean also without any reduction 
in pay. 

What was called trade unionism began to show its teeth 
and by a process of united action, could compel, in many cases 
where the pressure was timely, the employer to yield to its 
demands. This method of course did not instill any great 
amount of brotherly love into the relationships of the two fac¬ 
tions, and as long as labor asserted that it produced everything, 
and capital had no especial rights anyway, the conflict grew 
more bitter and intensified. Heretofore religion had held the 
stage of the quarrels of nations, but a something greater and 
which proved more important, because it was bringing things 
“nearer home,” now occupied the active brain forces which 
sought, not so much to find ways out of the difficulties created 
as to devise means of getting the advantage so as to hold the 
“whip row.” Chicago being a great industrial mart for man¬ 
ufacturers and railroads, was one of the natural centers where 
thoughts and actions would crystallize. Men of marked ability 
as labor leaders found it a congenial center of operations, and 
through the establishment of socialistic and other working- 
class papers in English and foreign languages, soon stirred up 
ihe masses as they had never been stirred before. 

Here were all the old elements of dissatisfied Europe come 
together under the patronage of unbridled liberty, and a free¬ 
dom to express themselves which they had never known before. 

[ 191 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


Here, too, were the hosts of the Pinkertons, gun men, private 
guards, and the police and militia, all at the behest of employ¬ 
ers and the powers of the State who were bound in no uncer¬ 
tain way to protect private property whenever and by whom 
attacked, and their methods of handling refractions of this 
kind were not proverbially gentle. Mr. Vanderbilt had 
remarked at the time of the great railroad disturbances of 
1877, “the public be damned”; and Jay Gould quietly expressed 
the inner conviction that “lead should be furnished instead of 
bread, and we would soon have a monarchy in this country 
which would be able to maintain law and order.” 

Of course labor leaders themselves expressly declared that 
the time had come to use something beside the ballot as an 
argument to conclude such a devious situation. The Interna¬ 
tional Workers’ Association had just met at Pittsburgh in 
October, 1883, and in the conscious surrounding of the 
many thousands of unemployed at that center the deter¬ 
mination to enforce a demand for the eight-hour day became 
the vital goal of the labor movement. Just how soon they 
would make a stand for this goal was uncertain—but not far 
in the future. 

Ernest and Mr. Breckinridge both agreed that it might 
be well for some special lectures to be arranged during the 
winter and spring of 1884, at which men of understanding 
and position in the labor movement could explain their points 
of view to any who would be interested to come to Walt Whit¬ 
man House for the purpose, whether they were sympathetic 
or otherwise. It was very evident that there was a struggle 
going on in the ranks of labor itself, as to the best methods of 
obtaining the ends sought. There was no doubt of the position 
of the workingman who was under the influence of the 
church—either Catholic or Protestant—he was against any 
elements known as anarchistic, communistic or socialistic, 
believing that such elements were scheming, not only for the 
overthrow of the government, but of the capitalistic system as 
well. They were not educated to this point of view and were 
contented simply to make the eight-hour question one of neces¬ 
sity based on right and justice. The direct action men, how¬ 
ever in the numerical minority they might be, were like buzzing 
bees in the labor movement and constantly on the alert to keep 

[ 192 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


things stirred up and in an unsettled state, trusting for some 
occasion of vantage to arise to win the others over to their way 
of thinking. Two men—one English speaking, an American, 
the other of German extraction and an able thinker and scholar 
as well as a newspaper editor—were good representatives of 
the restless type of agitators and organizers in the radical 
camp. The first was Albert R. Parsons, traveling everywhere 
and an indefatigable speaker and writer in the cause; the other 
August Spies, publisher of the Arbeiter Zeitung, brilliant and 
sharp witted, a bom leader and instigator. 

These two men would fairly represent the type who 
believed in action other than the ballot. They claimed that no 
revolution could succeed by pursuing such slow-blooded meth¬ 
ods. While it was evident from their standpoint that the 
machinery of the ballot box was entirely in control of the 
capitalistic class, it was not so plain to the great majority that 
any attempt to force the situation could not end in anything 
but defeat. Monumental changes in society cannot be secured 
by direct action unless there is a fairly unanimous desire to 
bring the change about, due to the grinding down beyond 
endurance of the masses by the minority. One could not fairly 
say this was a fact in the United States, although the situation 
was gradually nearing the danger point. The great fact to be 
kept in mind is that the socialists and anarchists, especially the 
latter, were in the minority of the labor element, and in reality 
were feared and disliked by a large percentage of them. It was 
perfectly all right for men like Spies and Parsons to preach the 
eight-hour day, but when the means of securing it was advo¬ 
cated to be one attained by force, that was an entirely different 
matter with many of the men who were not only subservient 
to employers but believed in the protection of the State. One 
radical difference was because of the fact that very few of the 
direct actionists had any regard for religious beliefs; in fact, 
they preached and taught that religion was the dope that put 
people to sleep and permitted them to be deprived of their 
rights of manhood. This was the great reason for the ban of 
the Catholic Church against socialism. 

A man of entirely different inheritance was William 
Mackintire, a young enthusiast just out of Harvard College, 
who had been raised in a town of the Middle West, the son of 

[ 193 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


a Congregational clergyman. The old forms of religion with 
him had given place to an intense love for morality with a sense 
of justice for humanity, based on an opportunity which meant 
leisure and culture to an added degree than now possessed, for 
the men who worked with their hands. He was the beloved 
leader of a small group of people largely enlisted from the 
Philosophical society and lectured to them Sunday mornings 
on a series of ethical problems called out by the exigencies of 
the times. The writings of William Morris, George Eliot, and 
other modernists of England, as well as the vigorous and 
relentless Nietzsche of Germany, and, too, the disillusioned but 
brilliant Tolstoy of Russia furnished him themes for aspiration. 
While he was an earnest advocate of all peaceful measures 
which might be adopted for the welfare of the working classes, 
he would not stand for forceful proceedings which spelled riot 
and bloodshed. 

The religious doctrines of Tolstoy were making a deep 
impression on the thinking world, as well as his well known 
proposition that it was desirable for one to produce as far as 
possible that which he consumed. The doctrine of non-resist¬ 
ance was his interpretation of Christ’s teachings to the world. 
He found relief in his contact with the common people who 
were free from the hypocrisies of the upper classes, and in 
manual labor. All human institutions, like kingly power, State, 
church, judiciary, jury, army, and even marriage, stood in the 
way of the natural development of the power of the individual. 

It is remarkable what a renaissance there was about this 
time in all of the progressive countries of the world towards 
a new expression in democracy. The addresses of the par¬ 
liamentarians, the leading articles in the thoughtful magazines, 
the tone of the social novels, especially in England, were all 
alive to the growing liberalism of the day. There was a great 
demand for lectures and discussion at the Walt Whitman 
House from the many who had learned now to call it their 
neighborhood center, to have these opportunities set before 
them, and in arranging the programs for the winter a mid¬ 
week lecture and discussion was made a regular event. Mr. 
Mackintire, who resided not far away, was very much attracted 
to the personality of Mr. Breckinridge, and was soon a very 
able and welcome coadjutor in the life of the House. Because 

[ 194 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


of his public stand as a lecturer he had attracted a group of 
brilliant young labor and professional men about him who were 
only too willing to have a place where they might come for 
self expression. It now appeared that with all of the demands 
for time to be satisfied there would not be much left for the 
private life of the Brotherhood. However, it was solemnly 
agreed that one evening a week should be theirs where they 
could sit together around their own fireside and express them¬ 
selves as they pleased. Of course the group now would be 
increased by the addition of Tessa and her father as well as 
Mr. Mackintire, whenever any of them desired to spend the 
evening in this way, and it was noticeable that none of them 
liked to be absent unless there was some very good reason. 
Tessa was very pronounced in her assertions for the cause of 
labor, much more so than were the others. 

While the art side appealed to her as an artist, still there 
was that inbred revolutionary spirit that forced her to apply 
her vitality, with which she was abundantly supplied, towards 
an accomplishment of things which seemed absolutely neces¬ 
sary to make the world just what she conceived it should be. 
The impatience of youth in her had very fixed ideas and she 
could not understand why everyone did not see clearly that 
her remedies were the direct, effective and proper ones to be 
pursued to gain the desired end. Ernest sometimes looked at 
her with wondering eyes. His was an inheritance of con¬ 
servatism, slowly growing and slowly yielding to new impulses, 
and this new phase of the development of the thought of the 
brotherhood towards the problems of human existence had 
to be well digested by him before he could realize its evolu¬ 
tionary importance. Tessa’s short acquaintance with Louise 
Michel, in Paris, in which her slumbering mind had been 
quickly awakened to the facts the world must face or be 
overpowered by in a rush of unreasoning frenzy, was her main¬ 
stay now in America as she observed in Chicago the growing 
seeds of revolution and revolt which might terminate destruc¬ 
tively unless taken in hand by the controlling sympathetic 
spirits of the day. 

While Tessa’s nature was impulsive it was the impulse 
of a warm heart which really brought tears to her eyes when 
she pictured the degradation and misery in which the larger 

[195] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


part of the people of the world lived, and this after all the years 
of a so-called civilization which seemed to spell idleness and 
comfort for the few and relentless toil for the masses. Life’s 
expression through art was for one here and there who pos¬ 
sessed the fire of genius or the joy of a living imagination. But 
the whole social structure must be uplifted and rebuilt on 
another scale to place all of these people in a position of oppor¬ 
tunity to bring out what was best in them. She was for that, 
and the quickest way to get it. Something about the clean- 
cut, incisive words of men like Spies and Parsons appealed to 
her in their condemnation of the lordly overseers who took 
the masters’ shares and left the crumbs for the workers. 
Accordingly she was very anxious and insistent that these men 
be accorded an opportunity to speak and debate during the 
evening devoted to the consideration of the labor problems of 
the day. She could not believe that she was either socialist 
or anarchist, but in her reckless desire to get somewhere their 
sturdy programs attracted her. There is much of ignominy 
in a name once it has been slurred in high places, and for any 
to admit the appellation of socialist or anarchist was suffi¬ 
cient to tie a bell of alarm about the neck as a warning to those 
who might approach. To an Irish policeman especially are 
these words of sufficient import for him to proceed to direct 
action of the direst nature. These names have compelled the 
veriest of humanitarians to be as unwelcome as a physical 
scourge. Probably what was known as the labor movement 
suffered greatly from the honest and well-meaning intentions 
of these numerically small but intellectually great factors in 
their ranks. The theories of Karl Marx especially had stirred 
the minds of handworkers themselves and of those intellectuals 
who had sympathized with them in Europe, and his theories 
were imported into the United States in the immigration that 
came after the Civil War. In their view the power of the 
State should be greatly amplified, and certain public functions 
and utilities taken over and managed by the State for the 
benefit of the people and not for the private individuals and 
corporations. 

Of anarchists there were but a few, but the few who 
cared not for their lives or freedom if they could compel a 
reorganization of the system by which the world was in opera- 

[196] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


tion. The less government for them, the better; the fewer the 
laws the less infraction of the law there would be—the less 
interference with personal liberty. What was law anyway but 
the attempt of the majority, or the able minority to legislate 
and control the actions of others? They did not want this 
because all legislation was coersive and restrictive and took 
away the natural rights of the people. 

Notwithstanding the radical differences in the theories of 
life as propounded by these two philosophies their exponents 
were now found working together in a common interest for the 
betterment of humanity and incidentally to bring the eight 
hour rule into industrial life. The proposition seemed plain 
to Tessa but complex to Ernest. All of the forces of law and 
order, the press, the pulpit, the politicians, all were against 
both of these social forces. Again, what did the Reverend 
Dodson say to Ernest that afternoon in his study? “These 
things must be controlled and put aside (meaning the teach¬ 
ings of modem science), or the floodgates of individualism 
will be let loose for the destruction of all that we call sacred 
and consider holy (meaning religious beliefs and property).” 
And now he was faced with this terrible dilemma—the world 
had progressed mightily in the four years or more which had 
elapsed since the San Antonio days, and he must take pause 
to see within his own mind whether he was going now with 
the new tide as he was then, or whether he would find him¬ 
self becoming a conservative and the young girl at his side in 
the front rank of the new development. No, he must not 
become a reactionary. 

The qualities of mind which preserve the flower of youth 
are those of vision. Vision which is kaleidoscopic and shows 
life changing—new phases constantly and progressively. Were 
the words of these leaders of men within his hearing or the 
words of the great Tolstoy resounding from the distance, 
words of prophetic vision or the utterances of disillusioned 
vagrancy which had no definite goal of purpose for human 
welfare? He thought of Washington at Valley Forge. The 
cold desolation of that winter; the embers of a once passionate 
fire in a great heart; the few straggling adherents who stood 
by in rags and in hunger; the hopelessness of a great cause, 
too, for humanity's sake, that the ideal of liberty might not 

[ 197 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


perish. Then, just at the breaking point, to find a little glim¬ 
mer of morning light in the East, and finally the full light of 
a day of victory. Was this too much to expect to come to a 
greater humanity after the struggle of the centuries? Would 
kingly might and priestly craft ever holding the balance of 
power retreat, as the night which groped itself about Valley 
Forge? He dared to think that it would if the few brave 
souls here and there in the world held their ideals ever up like 
flaming torches burning, that their light might be reflected in 
the eyes of the multitudes. 

“Theirs not to reason why— 

Theirs but to do and die” 

in this fight for a greater liberation. All that he had dared 
think for himself as the best expression of his own life he 
must wish for the lives of everyone else; and if he found free¬ 
dom in relieving himself of the shackles which bound his mind, 
he must be ready and willing and glad to help afford the same 
relief to others. Here was Tessa, bold and unafraid, with a 
vision in her mind which she probably could not analyze, but 
she recognized that it was there and she was on fire with the 
yearning to express herself. 

Mackintire had his visions also and was already in the 
fight, equipped with the stuff of determination where argu¬ 
ments were invincible. The intellectuals and the workers by 
hand were stirred by his imagination—his intense longing for 
justice—a righteousness not God-made, but existing as a free 
element for the good of man. 

The example of every great soul stirred him; and too, 
the death of every martyr to a cause that sought for the libera¬ 
tion of man, body or soul. The encouraging touch and stimu¬ 
lation of a host of generals pleading the cause of the indus¬ 
trial slave, just at that time, seemed the forerunner of some¬ 
thing definite in the thought of a peaceful revolution which 
should set the face of the world in the light of a new direc¬ 
tion. Tolstoy, the restless, tireless, thinking Russian, had 
arrived at the years of his best work. Now about fifty years 
of age, his mind had been through many phases. He had seen 
much of life and was now reflecting deeply to see if he might 
not ascertain the fundamental reasons for which humanity was 

[ 198 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


struggling and suffering, and to learn also, if he might, whether 
or not it was all worth while. 

After the Crimean War in which 500,000 men, mostly 
peasants, were killed, and nearly two billion of debts created, 
he began to reflect on some subjects such as war, and patri¬ 
otism, and concluded that the instigators of wars such as this, 
were not the peasants who were put up as puppets by the mas¬ 
ter class to be played like pawms on a chess board, in some 
unholy conquest. Lord Salisbury, in England, after it was 
all over, said: “The English had put their money on the 
wrong horse.” To have made this remark at the time of the 
war would have been unpatriotic; but when the tears of the 
suffering victims had ceased to flow and the specters of the 
dead were less vivid in the eyes of the sufferers, it seemed 
all right to laugh the circumstance away. 

The Russians did not take the treaty which followed the 
war seriously; for when the Germans and French got at one 
another in 1871, the Russians tore the Crimean treaty to pieces 
and no one made a protest. These war lords always protested 
some high and lofty purpose for going into a war, such as “in 
defense of oppressed nationalities.” Mackintire was saying 
all this in one of the sacred evenings when the brotherhood 
could have the delicious sense of aloneness and the discussion 
had, under the leadership of Mackintire, settled itself down to 
the gospel of Tolstoy. The latter’s uncle commanded the Rus¬ 
sian army in the Crimean War, so that the then young Tolstoy 
was free to take such part as he chose in its carrying on. 

Mackintire had open before him, and referred to it occa¬ 
sionally, a copy of Tolstoy’s War and Peace written in the 
period from 1864 to 1869, covering all the phases of Russian 
life. These were the first hints of what afterwards became 
the fundamentals of Tolstoy; the elemental forces in the com¬ 
mon people as contrasted with the artificial life of the upper 
classes. Satisfied conservatism tries to be static. It neither 
desires to get into another position, nor will it allow others 
without its circle to do so. “But life is not like that: it is 
a progressive revolution whether those whom it plays upon 
recognize the fact or not,” said Mackintire. Someone said: 
“Life is like a game of billiards, and I think this point is one 
worth applying to youi estimate of what constitutes a con- 

[199] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


structive force. The billiard ball starts, driven by the force 
of a punch from the cue; this gives it direction. It is like the 
human opening its eyes to the world, knowing nothing of its 
surroundings but having a certain direction pointed out by 
its inner-possessed inheritances. After it has made its start 
under these influences the billiard ball meets another ball also 
in motion, and because of the contact both balls take on a new 
line of direction. The old line in which the first directive 
punch is still in evidence continues to assert itself, but the new 
impact, too, has influenced its direction. 

In life the other ball in motion is another “yourself” 
operating under the same law and subject to the same condi¬ 
tions. In that we must recognize in our lives the two impor¬ 
tant factors of heredity and environment, and be governed by 
them. I am now illustrating the life of Tolstoy, so that you 
may be cognizant of the conflict which was raging in his mind 
in all of his early years, until now he seems to be satisfied that 
he has found a basis of philosophy of life upon which he can 
construct his temple of reason. He is like many other minds 
where a restless nature seeks to try all of the honey fields in 
the sphere of knowledge and experience before he begins to 
build conclusions. He therefore commenced to turn over to 
himself the different elements, which many then were satis¬ 
fied contained happiness or constituted mental acceptances 
which pointed toward it. We must know why life is; the 
knowledge that it has existence is very apparent, but the “why 
for”—that is something very elusive to human thinking. First 
of all: was wealth of possession an essential? Tolstoy was the 
recipient of a good income and the owner of twenty thousand 
acres of land in Samara, and yet could not answer “enough.” 
He had happiness in his family—a helpful wife who bore him 
children and corrected his proof sheets assiduously—a great 
deal to be sure—but still the scale would not balance. Then 
fame through position and self-effort—yes, he had both— 
Anna Karenina was a prolific source, its publication brought 
to him world fame—the great Russian novelist, Tolstoy. His 
own government busily censored its pages, as well as anything 
else he wrote, and deleted such things as might interfere with 
the autocracy; but the wide awake countries of the world got 

[ 200 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


what he said in full—provided they had sufficiently capable 
translators, which was unfortunately not always the case. 

Then there were the additional certainties in life of 
science, religion and war; could he fasten with any of these 
a sense of helpfulness as being determining factors in reveal¬ 
ing the secret of life’s purpose? Science seemed to be able to 
say there were things knowable and others unknowable. The 
first could be exactly demonstrated and presented a founda¬ 
tion of facts resulting from life but the unknowable, by the 
edict of science itself, contained exactly what he wanted to 
know. Therefore science was only in part a lighthouse of 
information. War had lost its glamor—the glory was a very 
potent thing to many, but for Tolstoy it could not offset the 
horrid facts masked behind it. All that ever came to tired 
and discouraged humanity came through war, and its trap¬ 
pings of tinselled “pomp and circumstance” only had the 
hideous grin of the cloven skulls which lay rotting on the 
battlefields. No, none of these, save perhaps religion, could 
be his final resource of analyzation to find the secret deeply 
hidden from everyone. 

Thus his study and perturbation continued down to within 
a few years of the present time, and it is only through very 
recent translations that we have been able to learn just what 
conclusion he has arrived at. Here is what he says: 

“Goodness is really the fundamental metaphysical con¬ 
ception which forms the essence of our consciousness. It is a 
conception not defined by reason. It is that which can be 
defined by nothing else, but which defines everything else.. It 
is the highest, the eternal aim of life.” 

We may be led to believe by this that goodness is a term 
which can be explained by Tolstoy and, if by him, probably 
by many others in their own individual way. Goodness is a 
sort of a spectral glow, or a lumination which surrounds the 
“grail cup” of mediaevalism, one can scarcely look at it and 
live; there is light and purity, a sort of undefined something 
which constitutes a halo, but no specific entity that makes it 
realism. Perhaps unreality is the essense of spirituality of 
which goodness is this luminous halo. “I confess,” continued 
Mackintire, “that I cannot grasp with any great degree of 
sufficiency the idea that goodness is at the base of life’s reality, 

[ 201 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


and still it may be as good a conclusion as any at which to 
arrive. It only suggests, however, to me, that Tolstoy had 
only gone further than most people have by asserting his con¬ 
viction of the thing—most of us have not done this but take 
the conclusions of another. 

“Let us see with what tools he worked to go as far as he 
did. Thus he concludes, we have reason and conscience as 
our guides. We did not originate these but owe them to some 
outside source. A clue to the perplexities of life is that it 
is not ours to do with as we please but we owe an allegiance 
to what is called ‘Our Father in Heaven’ from whom proceeds 
the guidance we possess. Try to analyze this Father, or God, 
and we are hopelessly at sea. If we keep close to what we 
know through experience, we are as sure as Socrates was 
that we are in touch with ‘Eternal Goodness.’ We can’t 
explain except to say it is: ‘God is Love.’ The practical 
teaching of Christ is in the Sermon on the Mount, from which 
fine precepts are extracted and which must govern the true 
seekers of life’s meaning. ‘Do not be angry; do not lust; do 
not swear; do not injure, and finally, love your enemy.’ Eco¬ 
nomically speaking, he declared: ‘What I take goes to my 
debit; what I give goes to my credit.’ And co-operation with 
others, eat simply, dress simply, divide the disagreeable work 
with the others. The more a man takes for himself and the 
less he produces for others, the more he is a burden to society. 
Laws are rules made by people who govern with organized 
violence.’ All of this,” said Mackintire, “is the essence of 
Tolstoyism to date. He is a prolific thinker and in what 
direction his future thought will tend no one knows—prob¬ 
ably he does not know himself whether he is really convinced 
of the truth of these things he has so succinctly narrated, 
although it must be said he is putting them into practice in 
his own life. I am afraid, and the implication is obvious, 
that no one pattern is adapted to all natures. 

“Some are at their best when they are angry like the tur¬ 
moil of a great ocean, and generate, with such passions, the 
deepest and best that is in them. Anger stimulates thought, 
and the imagination causes the brain to ferment in its anxiety 
to secure a certain kind of satisfaction in conflict with another 
mind. Some of the most brilliant outbursts of human speech 

[ 202 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


have been made in fits of anger. I am not now arguing this 
phase in defense of a lack of self-control,” said Mackintire, 
“but we, all of us, enjoy the turbulence of the sea as well as 
the quiet and calm of its other moods, and we should soon 
tire of the monotony of a situation which was all of one kind. 
How the vitality of life reacts to us in every changing scene, 
and this is the stimulation to ourselves that we may develope 
in the many sided way which lies within us to do, if we only 
seek to uncover our possibilities. I sometimes feel that the 
Sermon on the Mount is much too complacent for a practical 
world. From the agony and tragedy of birth there is a con¬ 
stant succession of storms and calms in the experience of any¬ 
body or anything possessing life. There does not seem to be 
the capability of successful and vigorous growth without these 
alternating forces. The fact seems to be when one lays down 
the general platitude that laws and rules are made by those 
who govern with organized violence. There is a very great 
conflict going on and has been going on in society since man 
became civilized enough to hang this burden about his neck.” 

“Why,” broke in Tessa, who was very much interested 
and absorbed in Mackintire’s statements, “why do we need to 
have so much concern anyway, about the necessity and con¬ 
tinuance of human life, or any other life? We are everlast¬ 
ingly laying down restrictions and limitations for life, just 
as though we were pieces of delicate china and must be 
handled just so carefully, and by only a certain portion of 
us who claim a superior sort of wisdom, and privilege which 
others do not share. We are too serious altogether about the 
value of life, especially of our own little individuality with 
which we have only been rather definitely acquainted for a 
very few thousand years. Our perspective is so ridiculous, 
especially the generally accepted perspective of religion which 
points back to Moses and Abraham and allows them to lay 
down the rules for the governing of humanity through the 
inspiration of an invisible God. Now we are evidently finding 
out what God never told us: that instead of life being put into 
definite action at this particular period it has been growing 
and building for so many countless millions of years that we 
cannot even conceive of a time when it made any kind of a 
start. Even God has a small conception of the value of life 

[ 203 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


if he did not think it worth while making conscious to his 
created until the world was so old that we cannot estimate its 
years. I do not believe in all these rules and foundations. 
When you get at their bases you will find, as Tolstoy says, 
they are the desires of organized violence expressed in terms 
of law. I don’t know just what anarchism is but the word 
sounds to me to have a Promethean significance—a protest, 
a desire for freedom—of an opportunity for the expression of 
individuality. Some words seem to be on fire to tell the world 
what they are and what they stand for, and the word anarchs 
ism holds that meaning for me. We all know that the State 
as it exists for us, and has always existed as far as we have 
any historical knowledge, is founded and maintained by force 
and violence; that wars between nations, or among the peoples 
of the same nation, are not considered crimes or unlawful 
procedures. We also know that the Christian religion is 
maintained by threats of what will be meted out to those who 
enter eternal life—that they must prepare themselves before 
hand, make a choice and be happy or suffer eternally because 
of this choice. We know, too, that in one’s position in this 
world a decision must be made as to which of the social fac¬ 
tions one is to align himself and stand or fall with the others 
because of it. Why, if government and religion and our 
mutual relations are so sure and good, must there be this ter¬ 
rible compulsion of defining oneself in the eyes of others, or 
of becoming static on these outstanding questions of the age in 
which one lives? I would rather be an outcast, mentally and 
socially, if I were convinced of the sureness of my purpose. 
This is what causes the halo to be bestowed on martyrdom. 
I can respect the giving up of life voluntarily or unwillingly 
which comes through a bondage to convictions. Strangely 
enough, however, there is little tolerance for the arbitrarily 
mentally different who is a part of our own living generation. 
All of the reserve forces of conservatism and the reactionaries 
are marshalled forth to defend accepted ideas of the bygone 
generations so long as they maintain the purported rights of 
property, State and religion. I do not claim that these things 
have no rights—I only judge them from the facts of history, 
past and present, that notwithstanding all of their supposed 
benefits to the human race, for whom and by whom they were 

[ 204 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


fabricated, the world is crying now as it always has been, with 
the pains of suffering and deprivation. I cannot tell you with 
what joy I feel that I am alive now in a decade of brimming 
years. One feels the electric charge in the very air one 
breathes of a great call to arms to dispel the bondage of the 
world. There is a spirit of revolt everywhere except amongst 
the cloistered few who live in an atmosphere of self-centered 
content. But before my eyes there passes the great white army 
of the redeemed which has earned the right to enter into a 
higher place in life. No visions of Joan of Arc, or voices 
calling through the air, could be more forcible tokens of the 
coming change than the march of labor to its greater privilege 
in existence, as now manifested in the strength of its organized 
demands. It is my greatest desire in life to see its day of 
redemption.” 

As Tessa uttered these last words in a sort of ecstasy she 
suddenly became conscious of the fact that she stood alone 
and apart—a voice crying desperately in the wilderness, 
although kind and sympathetic faces were all around her. 
She felt that she was alone because she had carried her 
intensity of thought away and beyond the discussion started 
by Mackintire. Realizing that perhaps her impulsiveness had 
misled her into saying things which might seem inconsistent 
with a dignified discussion of a subject in which all of the 
group were reacting to, her face flushed, and going over to 
her father, she burst into tears in a paroxysm of nervous 
excitement which she seemed unable to control. 

Mackintire, however, to turn the embarrassment, and 
admiring the spirit of the girl, continued his reflections on the 
convictions suggested by Tolstoy until Tessa’s tranquility of 
mind was restored. No one who could reveal the sincerity of 
an inner soul, as Tessa had done, would but command the deep¬ 
est respect and the admiration of all who surrounded her and 
felt the thrill of her overflowing zeal for a cause of which 
she was by both birth and environment such a distant part. 
Ernest, as he sat there, absorbed in her wonderful personality, 
scarcely believing that it was Tessa, speaking in a flow of 
words, which came from the depths of a righteous passion for 
justice and tolerance, saw in his mind’s eye again and again 
as he had that first evening, when he had returned from accom- 

[ 205 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


panying her to the hotel where she lived, the figure of leader¬ 
ship which would be on fire for any cause great enough to 
enlist her enthusiasm and tireless energy. He could not resist 
going to her side as the group broke up into two’s and three’s 
in minor discussion. Taking her hand he said: “Tessa, you 
are magnificent; I only hope that I will have the courage of 
my convictions as you have the courage of yours. The world 
needs such leadership, and I for one feel thankful to you for 
this manifestation. I have yet to decide in my own mind 
whether the methods which so enlist your sense of womanliness 
are the ones I shall choose or not. I cannot feel the complete¬ 
ness of Tolstoy-ism—although the doctrine of passive resist¬ 
ance does impress me as a potent one—and whether it will 
eventually overcome force is an interesting problem to dis¬ 
cuss. The men you admire believe in meeting force with 
force, and the first impression is that this is logical; but deliber¬ 
ation causes one to question the ultimate result of a conflict 
between brute exertion and the human intellect. If Tolstoy 
were to strip his argument free from Christianity I should 
have greater confidence in it. But there seems to be the old 
dependence on some invisible Father, or God. If a man is 
quite clear in his thinking he must surely see that all his 
thoughts and conceptions of this utterly unknown quantity 
emanate from the human brain, and why allow himself to be 
befogged by so much extraneous material ? One can conceive 
of what constitutes goodness just as well through his own 
untrammeled thinking; yes, even better—if he hasn’t this 
background of God to keep continually before him. He ought 
to know that until he became possessed of consciousness he 
could not realize what good and bad were, because he had no 
need to know about them. As soon as he was able to sense 
a moral act he began to have limitations, and when he realized 
this his freedom began to wane. Civilization, so-called, has 
increased his consciousness and decreased his freedom. As 
his sense of goodness and badness increased he found a grow¬ 
ing desire to create laws and limitations for himself, so much 
so that now if he enforced all the laws he has created the 
word freedom would disappear from his vocabulary. Because 
he does not enforce his laws be becomes increasingly a creature 
of hypocrisy, and the more powerful he is the less anxious he 

[ 206 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 

is to conform to his own laws, but the more likely he is to 
exercise them over others whom he wishes to subject to his 
control. We are now at that stage and find ourselves in the 
situation which makes you cry out, Tessa, in protest, for the 
great masses of the world are subject to the autocracy of the 
very few. I do not believe, however, that force meeting force 
is going to solve the problem, because, in the first place, such 
action implies immediate results, and the problem is too old 
and too far-reaching to be settled by a quick blow. It has 
been often tried and it has uniformly failed—and will fail 
again.. I would counsel you to be prudent about deciding too 
hastily on this subject. I am rather glad, than otherwise, that 
my nature commands me to be cautious about impulsiveness, 
even in a cause which reaches very close to my intensest sym¬ 
pathies. Let me be your confident in this problem and we will 
try to work it out together in what seems to be the best way. 
I think you will have a reaction from the discussion of this 
evening and I should like to have you go with me and the 
others out into a quiet atmosphere of contemplation for a while 
and have another impression of your environment. Have you 
ever noticed that after prolonged and intense attempts to mas¬ 
ter a difficult problem unsuccessfully, as one turns to some¬ 
thing else in despair there comes a refreshment of mind which 
makes the solution of the first perplexity an easy one? It is 
because we get too close to the object in which we are inter¬ 
ested. We cannot see what we wish to see and as we wish 
to see it. How wonderfully different the old Greek and 
Roman world looks to us after the lapse of centuries. Now 
the gold of great artistry and architecture triumphs in a 
majesty the world has never otherwise known, and the little 
things which were so meretricious in the characters of these 
peoples are insignificant in the nobility of an eternal back¬ 
ground. I feel the same impatience as you, but when I recall 
the struggle of humanity for all the historic years, and for 
the greater span before and beyond towards opportunity and 
rights as I see the object before me with its perplexities, 
the processes of Nature are slow and unsatisfying. How 
patient we must teach ourselves to be—regretting the barren 
years and failing efforts that seem so plentiful, and only now 
and then having a vision of some glorious attainment which 

[2(V J 


THE EDUCATION OF 


periodically has swept the world on towards our elusive ideals.” 

“Thank you, Ernest,” said Tessa, “I shall try to be more 
generous in my attitude towards progress but I shall not 
become any the less insistent in giving all of which I am 
capable to the cause.” 

“Good! I don’t ask you to do otherwise. But tomorrow 
evening, at any rate, I would like to have you go with us to 
St. Peter’s Church just for a little look into an entirely differ¬ 
ent telescope from the one in which we have been absorbed this 
evening. It is to take our minds from the near things of life 
to those far away and thus make the near things easier to 
comprehend and master. I fear we try to assume too much 
the role of attempting to force others to see things as we see 
them. I can’t say I have any admiration for reformers as 
such. I believe, though, if one has a conception of the possi¬ 
bilities in life from which others seem excluded that it is a 
pleasure to impart one’s new point of view at least. All gov¬ 
ernment and law and religion lay down certain inviolable pro¬ 
positions which everyone is supposed to acquire as one’s own, 
but I enjoy looking at life a little differently. To me the 
aesthetic attitude is the more absorbing and if I can get the 
greatest joy in its contemplation it is my pleasure to offer to 
transfer it to others. In your relationship you find a hard, 
stern duty, a continual conflict between classes and a grim 
determination to assist in the establishment of justice. This, 
in so much as it increasingly becomes a conflict of animosities, 
embitters others and yourself, so that the facts of existence are 
colorless and your environment becomes like a world with a 
clouded sky and with an absence of sunshine. I do not wish 
that that should become your lot, Tessa, and I am sure what 
you are seeking will come to you in its own good time. I love 
to go to places like St. Peter’s Church, for the color and pic¬ 
turesqueness take me away from the monotony even of a life 
of usefulness and give the mind a change of atmosphere to 
which it will readily respond.” 

The evening of the next day was a beautiful one, late in 
the spring, a full moon and an unclouded sky. It was a walk 
of a mile or more through the densely foreign settlements and 
along streets full of playing children in their colorful cos¬ 
tumes. Tessa for the time forgot all of her guardianships and 

[ 208 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


cares, and it seemed to her that once again she was in the 
streets of Paris with Marie, looking for groups of children to 
sketch for a painting. Poor Marie! And poor Bastien- 
Lepage, both of them poor in a physical sense, but rich with 
the sublimity of artistic conceptions they were so ambitious 
to fulfill. She compared them with herself and her own physi¬ 
cal exuberance, which made her life one of delightful happi¬ 
ness, but, to her, a seeming poverty of expression. Thus are 
the compensations and annoyances in balance in the scales of 
life. 

Arriving at the gate in the wall surrounding St. Peter’s 
Church, they observed the squalor of the district in which it 
was situated; poverty, crime, prostitution—everything which 
accompanies the unbeautiful, but through the opened door the 
blaze of light from a thousand flickering candles about the 
gorgeous altar pieces greeted them. What a reaction from 
darkness to light, from filth to shining gold. All about them 
these ignorant, crime-tainted specimens of humanity taking a 
drink from the fountain of purity. Here and there the Fran¬ 
ciscan priests, busy with their duties, appeared and disap¬ 
peared. The old pictures of St. Francis which Ernest had 
seen in San Fernando were here moving objects in real life, 
costumed exactly as he and his followers had been in the cen¬ 
turies gone. Ernest fixed his eye steadily on the image of 
the crucified one, as if to seek to feel an impulse, like the 
others, out of the unknown, and bring a cleansing breath to 
purify their bodies and sanctify their souls to the invisible. 
The Hindoo, gazing intent at the shining crystal, saw the 
process of spiritual life as his contemplation shut out the near 
world and its commotion. This yielding to the introspective 
brings one to a more complacent attitude towards the prob¬ 
lems of life which are closely pressing for solution. The petty 
annoyances and worries which so beset us are easily conquered 
by a period of tranquility. 

As Ernest, in a few moments, turned his eyes toward 
Tessa, he saw that she was under the spell and her face was 
glowing with some inward exaltation the nature of which he 
could not discern. As he waited for her to recover herself he 
saw, coming from one of the doors at the side of the altar, 
a figure in the habilaments of a Franciscan friar, one which 

[209] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


startled him with its familiar outlines, and when the half cov¬ 
ered face shone in the light of the candles, he saw that it was 
Cristoforo, with whom he parted five years ago in San Pedro 
Park in San Antonio. He could scarcely restrain himself, 
but seeing that Cristoforo was busy with the duties of his 
priestly office, he satisfied himself with trying to catch his eye 
for a recognition. Cristoforo, however, did not observe him 
and soon became invisible again as he retired through the 
door at which he had entered. 

Ernest was pleased to know that his friend was back again 
at St. Peter’s and resolved to invite him to the Walt Whitman 
House where they might not only renew old acquaintances but 
show Cristoforo that he, too, was obeying the call of an 
unknown Divinity. While all this was rushing through his 
head and before his eyes he felt the gentle pull of Tessa’s 
hand on his arm and he heard her saying: 

“Come, let us go, Ernest. I am very glad you asked me 
to come here tonight for I have learned a lesson about some¬ 
thing of which I was profoundly ignorant. I trust I shall be 
more patient in the future. I never knew before why these 
dumb, distracted creatures came into a Catholic Church, but 
now I know it is the only place in their sordid and monotonous 
lives where they may feel alone with their own souls, with 
the world of distractions shut out for a few blessed moments, 
and ‘a peace which passeth all understanding’ visits them and 
satisfies their hunger and thirst for something which is unat¬ 
tainable elsewhere. I myself feel so different, so rested, so 
comforted. This is the proof to me of the nobility of your 
developing plan. As I stood there with my eyes fixed on the 
image of the Saviour on the cross, the verses of old Omar 
came to me and ran through my mind with a freshness they 
never had before. I saw myself standing amongst a thousand 
crimson roses in that beautiful garden in Persia, while the 
gentle wind blew its scented breath softly through the swaying 
branches from which the rose leaves were dropping; dropping, 
as if life were wasting itself in futility. But I knew it was not, 
it was ‘blind love seeking its goal,’ and your beautiful lines 
came to me as I stood there with the Christ on the cross 
obliterated. As I saw only the rose garden and the dropping 

[210] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


x 

leaves I repeated these lines to myself and they never seemed 
so beautiful, nor so full of meaning: 

“Ah! Truth of invisible soul, 

Love-blind, but knowing its goal, 

With you I am reconciled. 

Do not despair—your caress 
With a lover's ardor you press; 

Your lips I feel everywhere.” 

This wonderful picture of the gentle, invisible wind, as with 
a lover’s lips kissing me softly, invisible, but with a sense of 
conscious touch; and I thought of it, too, as touching the full 
blown rose leaves in that Persian garden of fate as if saying: 
It is time to go now; take your place with the dead that others 
may have their opportunity. This showed me in my contem¬ 
plation the little place which any individual holds in the great 
scheme of Nature’s unfolding. And yet, it told me, too, that 
each one is a link in the chain by which the complete panorama 
of life is brought to view. I feel impatient to do my part in 
the procession of life, only fearing that I shall, like the great 
multitudes, pass the opportunity by of being a small factor in 
the uplifting to an aspiration of the ideals of the human race. 
That other poem of yours called, ‘Sifting Ashes,’ comes to my 
mind now as the romance of the Persian garden absorbs my 
thoughts and I think of these passing opportunities. It is as 
if I saw in these falling rose leaves 

'The great Mother silently sifting the dead 
That my Architect could build still more beautiful things / 

“And this is the way I want to have my life, Ernest, that 
it may be the means of bringing a more beautiful vision to the 
future of others.” 


[211] 


CHAPTER V 


The Heart of a Man 

The heart of a young man is not naturally pessimistic. 
Ernest was very much interested in the translations of Omar 
Khayyam, and while he was captivated by the vivid fatalism 
of the verses he could not feel that they represented the West¬ 
ern phase of life. He had just read the words: 

“And that inverted howl men call the sky, 
Whereunder, crawling, we live and die; 

Lift not thy hands to it for help — 

For it rolls impotently, as thou or I” 

And yet, he said to himself, this is indeed the conscious or 
unconscious attitude of the average person even in the eighth 
decade of the nineteenth century, and one must be continu¬ 
ously on one’s guard against its depressions. Under Tessa’s 
insisting influence, the seasons which were passed since the 
eventful evening at St. Peter’s Church had brought to Ernest 
a greatly awakened interest in the “how and wherefore” of 
people’s lives as applied especially to the masses within reach 
of the Walt Whitman Center. It was now the early spring of 
1886 , and his education as contemplated to fit him for a priest 
of the “Church of All Souls,” as Mr. Breckinridge often affec¬ 
tionately called it, was approaching its completion. Ernest’s 
feeling for father and daughter was a sincere appreciation, 
both of their whole-souled interest in the adventure they were 
undertaking and as well a genuine love for the spirit of democ¬ 
racy it breathed. There was no spark of hypocrisy in any 
word or act of theirs in which he was concerned. To every 
appearance he himself had fulfilled their expectations and 
broadened his horizons until his education was comprehensive 
and varied. 


[212] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


The stimulus of Mackintire had been a valuable one and 
to this was added that of the newspaper editor who had first 
written to him for the details of their ambitions. This editor 
whose name was Henry Demarest, not only came to the house 
more than once but was deeply impressed by the discriminative 
nature of the aims of its constituents. Both he and Mackintire 
were close students of the rising unrest in the industrial world 
and saw, in a rapidly approaching climax, many signs of con¬ 
flict in which human beings would be arrayed against one 
another. A struggle which might mean the end of the old 
system and its replacement by another in which ideals were 
brought forward as untried divinities. It was an important 
climax and no one could foretell what might come to pass. 
It was very evident a test of strength was at hand and each 
class was preparing for it. In England there was a similar 
situation and the unrest in the realm of the workers was an 
international one. 

Ernest was flattered, one day, to receive a letter from 
William Morris, with whom he had been in a considerable 
correspondence concerning some of his activities in the nature 
of furnishings and decorations, including the making of stained 
glass designs, wall hangings, etc., to which Burne-Jones was 
lending his esthetic mind. It was proposed that Walt Whit¬ 
man House should inaugurate a similar undertaking, using the 
Morris ideas as a pattern. However, the letter which had just 
arrived from Morris showed the deep effect the problem of 
humanism was having in the latter’s thoughts and the stimulat¬ 
ing influence of Morris was very strong on the receptive minds 
of both Ernest and Tessa. Morris was then in the prime of 
life, as Tolstoy was, and being a man of untiring energy was 
devoting himself not only to esthetics in manufacture but was 
writing prolifically as well. Added to these now came an 
absorbing interest in the great question of the day which 
was vital in its demand for a settlement. The letter was from 
London and read as follows: 

27 Farringdon st., 

6th March, 1886. 

My Dear Wtimer ding: 

I have not heretofore answered your last interesting letter 
about the decorative panels as I wished first to confer with 

[213] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


Burne-Jones concerning the subjects to be inserted. Will 
reply to you a little later after he gives me his views. I am 
at present almost worn to distraction—having added another 
worry to my already heavy burden of work. It seems I am 
one of those enthusiasts who never knows when he has enough 
on his shoulders; and as there is a woeful lack of those who 
are willing to face an unpopular cause it has devolved upon me 
to do it just now. The restless attitude of labor in the present 
industrial world has convinced me that unless some steps are 
taken, and taken right now, there will be an upheaval such as 
my complacent and self-satisfied capitalistic friends will not at 
all like. I notice in America you are approaching a similar 
crisis. I feel the abject failure of any revolt of the working 
classes in their present intellectual average. They are not pre¬ 
pared to assume the responsibilities of government, and if they 
should succeed in their revolution, and have no positive pro¬ 
gram which has been thought out to a favorable conclusion, 
they will experience a stupendous failure of the whole thing. 
Such an unfortunate result would set the movement back for 
another generation at least. My slogan is expressed in three 
words and I am hitting all the heads possible, for the sense 
of it appeals to me strongly: “Education towards Revolution.” 
A great task requires great preparation and for this the Social¬ 
ist League has been organized which has also established and 
supports a paper called the “Commonweal.” We have just 
passed through some stirring times here in London, and the 
frequent and severe riots have awakened the people to a con¬ 
sciousness that “something is rotten in Denmark” and must 
be taken in hand. Of course I am criticised and expect to be. 
The press dubs me the “poet-upholsterer” which rolls harm¬ 
lessly off my skin. But the more serious charge which hits 
me in a sore spot is that I am guilty of hypocrisy in attempting 
to be both a Socialist and an employer (capitalist) at one and 
the same time, and yet I cannot avoid that situation. I was 
already the latter when the former took possession of me. 

What should I do ? I have continually given very serious 
thought to this complexity and the main point outstanding is 
that Socialism proposes a change involving the very noblest 
ideal of human life and duty—a life in which every human 
should find unrestricted opportunity for the expression of his 

[214] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


best powers and faculties. I have been criticized that the idea 
is preposterous: that Nature insists on condemning the larger 
number of the human race to be permanently poor, ignorant 
and brutal; that it is even necessary and desirable that this 
should be so. My esteemed critics have borne down upon the 
antiquated proposition that the main object of Socialism is the 
re-distribution of individual property in equal shares, when, 
as a matter of fact, collectivism and co-operation under the 
State is what we advocate, and is far different from taking the 
Queen’s millions and handing them over in equal parts to the 
improvident of East London. However, the solution which 
comes the nearest home to me is to take care of my own indi¬ 
vidual example. 

Granted I am a capitalist, and an employer, and, too, a 
socialist, what then is my immediate duty, or how can I best 
serve the higher cause of which I am an advocate ? I can cer¬ 
tainly do one of three things: first, I can give the profits of 
my business to my employees; next, I can use my profits in an 
effort to establish International Socialism; or finally, I can 
give everything away, like the Franciscans, and follow the 
admonition: “If thou wilt be perfect, go, sell what thou hast 
and give to the poor, and come, follow me.” The latter I can 
well dismiss; although I realize its appeal to the imagination 
in the twelfth century. It was one of the redeeming features 
of the world which led to its renaissance. It would be imprac¬ 
tical now and lead nowhere beyond its effect on my immediate 
self, and the effect there would be questionable were I deprived 
of my tools of action. The first proposition lacks a convinc¬ 
ing sense to me in that it leaves me helpless and simply creates 
a few in my establishment alone who would become petty 
bourgeoise and also the envy of a lot of others who would like 
the same application from their employers. The great idea 
would not be the gainer and I would simply lose what power 
I have to push the slogan: “Education toward Revolution.” 
I am determined, therefore, to accept the criticisms and devote 
my profits and energies to the middle course. 

The hope that the working class can or will contribute any 
considerable amount to the cause which is an advocate of 
their betterment is a futile one, and it is therefore only the 
more necessary that those who have surplus funds should 

[215] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


provide the real sinews of war. Even some of my closest 
friends like Burne-Jones, smile at my credulity; but I am in 
earnest and shall give some of my best endeavors to the fight 
for human opportunity. Burne-Jones is perfectly all right in 
his place of creating beautiful things, but I wish to realize a 
larger field for esthetics in which not only the rich and influen¬ 
tial shall be the patrons of men like him, but the circle of the 
lovers of his sensuous art shall be immeasureably increased. 
Of course Paddy spoke a lot of truth at one of my meetings 
in Dublin, when he remarked afterward: “The working man 
does not want so much art and education as he needs to have 
his stomach filled/’ and we must all realize the practical situa¬ 
tion which is involved in settling this problem. I sincerely 
wish you great success in your experiment in Chicago and 
shall watch immediate events very closely, for I can easily 
believe we are in for some strenuous times. 

This was a remarkable letter for Morris to write just at 
this time, for it came in days that were a-tremble with anticipa¬ 
tion of the awakening of the new spirit of freedom which was 
abroad in the world seeking a means of expression. The 
menace everywhere was the growing thought that force must 
be met by force, and also that if the workingmen were menaced 
by the armed representatives of capitalism they should retaliate 
in kind. Morris saw this, and when in the London riots the 
rush advanced to the better districts and smashed the very 
windows of Carleton Club, it was quite certain they were pre¬ 
pared to be anything but abject in their attitude when aroused 
and determined. 

The radical newspapers of Chicago were ably edited by 
men devoted to the uplifting of the conditions of the working 
classes and the general tone gradually became extremely 
unfriendly to any idea that progress could be secured by peace¬ 
ful attempts to win through the ballot. An election in the 
city in which a socialist alderman had apparently received a 
majority of the votes cast but was, nevertheless, counted out 
through a combination of the officials of the two old parties, 
embittered the minds of the workers who, after raising a large 
fund to protest and protect themselves, found their efforts of 
no avail. This added to the already growing flame. The eight 
hour day crisis was rapidly approaching as the first of May, 

[216] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


1886, had been determined on finally as the time when it would 
be put in force. It was planned that a general strike should 
follow if the demand was not acceded to by the employers. 

The Arbeiter-Zeitung, a daily organ of the German radi¬ 
cals, was using its best efforts, as was The Alarm, an English- 
language paper, to instill into the minds of the masses that 
they should no longer be servile, but assert their rights and 
meet force by force. This was advocated in all sincerity but 
with the mistaken idea that quick results could be secured. 
The idea of Morris of “Education towards Revolution’’ 
seemed to them only a repetition of the fading hope that the 
ballot box was the remedy for all the ills of society. The 
Arbeiter-Zeitung said editorially: “The police and soldiers 
who fight for that power (capitalism) must be met by armed 
armies of workingmen; the logic of facts requires this. Arms 
are more necessary in our times than anything else. Whoever 
has no money sell his watch and chain and buy firearms 
for the amount realized. Stones and sticks will not avail 
against the hired assassins of the extortionists: it is time to 
arm yourselves.” 

And The Alarm, which was much more radical, said: 
“Nothing but an uprising of the people and a bursting open 
of all stores and storehouses to the free access of the public 
and a free application of dynamite to everyone who opposes, 
will relieve the world of the infernal nightmare of property 
and wages. The ballot can be wielded by free men alone— 
slaves can only revolt and rise in insurrection against their 
despoilers. Let us bear in mind that here in America, as 
elsewhere, the worker is held in economic bondage by the use 
of force, and the employment of force therefore becomes a 
necessity to his economic emancipation. Poverty can’t vote.” 

It must be borne in mind that the following of such 
leaders was limited and did not represent the vast army of 
workers who were seeking the “eight-hour day.” The radicals 
merely saw the opportunity the agitation for the reduction of 
hours afforded them to bring their pronounced views on eco¬ 
nomic questions into the foreground. The advocacy of meet¬ 
ing force with force bore fruit in the organization of what 
was called “The Land und Wehr Verein,” which, until dis¬ 
banded by law, was an effectively drilled army of about three 

[217] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


thousand men, who at times paraded the streets with guns and 
uniforms and were undoubtedly preparing for a conflict with 
the police and the militia when the right opportunity pre¬ 
sented itself. Meetings of different kinds were being held in 
favorable locations of the city, where the bolder of the agi¬ 
tators could put their message over to a sympathizing crowd, 
and the anarchist factions were on the alert to turn the tide 
of dissention in their direction by vigorous appeals to the 
workers “to strike for their rights if they were not forthcom- 
ing.” Probably Albert R. Parsons, an American and editor of 
The Alarm, was the boldest of the advocates of force, and 
some of his speeches were calculated to arouse his hearers to 
a degree of recklessness which might at any time provoke 
serious results. The conservative labor leaders held aloof 
from all of this, but the determination of the minority was so 
strong that the city was seething with the unrest which pre¬ 
cedes a coming storm. The inclination of Mackintire, in his 
intense devotion to the humanistic cause, was to attempt by a 
policy of harmonizing the conflicting interests, to avoid any 
direct outbreak. 

Through Demarest’s position as a newspaper editor Mac- 
intire was kept in possession as to what moves were being 
made amongst all the parties concerned, and it was apparent 
that the employing classes would seize on any overt act for an 
excuse to take a concerted action against the leaders of the 
agitation. The police were to be depended on to obey with 
alacrity any instructions to clean up “the foreign gang who 
were at the bottom of it all.” Mackintire proposed that a 
group, representing both capital and labor, be invited to a con¬ 
ference at Walt Whitman House which might lead to a better 
sense of understanding by bringing these representatives face 
to face in a social sort of way. This was putting the House 
to still another use and the idea was received with enthusiasm 
by those with whom Mackintire talked. There were several 
representatives of the Commercial Club, the Chamber of Com¬ 
merce, a number of attorneys, two or three clergymen, and a 
half dozen representatives of the labor element who came 
together in answer to the invitation. 

Among the latter were two who assumed the leadership 
in the discussions of the evening and who impressed the gath- 

[218] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


ering by the logic of their arguments as well as by their evi¬ 
dent sincerity. These two were an Englishman named Samuel 
Fielden and a Pennsylvania Dutchman called Oscar Neebe, 
the former a teamster, the latter a yeast salesman. Mackintire 
took the guiding hand at this conference which occurred in 
March, 1886, and stated that it was an attempt to bring about 
a better understanding between the forces which combined to 
make up the industrial life of the day and said how necessary 
it was that leaders should know one another as, because of 
a touch of friendship or acquaintance at least, there would be 
less likelihood of misunderstanding. If a number of confer¬ 
ences could be held he felt sure some common basis could be 
arrived at. 

The census of 1880 showed that of fifty-five million people 
in the country there were more than sixteen million men, 
women and girls at work with their hands, so that the laborers 
and their families were a very important factor in the life 
of the nation. Unemployment was a very considerable quan¬ 
tity and there seemed no immediate way of reducing the num¬ 
ber of the unemployed except by bringing about the eight-hour 
day. Employers must recognize that they were dealing with 
human flesh when they considered the labor problem and it was 
a different commodity from the material which the laborer 
used in his construction. Too many employers did not see the 
human side and were intent on purchasing their labor at the 
lowest possible price. This, if made the commonly accepted 
basis of bartering, could lead to but one thing, and that one 
thing they had come together to confer about, hoping they 
might devise means of preventing a disastrous climax. The 
ethical problems involved in the human problem were both 
vital and assertive, and if America proposed to keep its high 
estimate of the value of freedom and opportunity unimpaired, 
she must see to it that no reaction should enter in because of 
the question of profits. It was evident from the start that 
aside from the laborites present there was a prejudice because 
of misunderstanding in regard to the words Socialism and 
Anarchism, and the whole attitude on the part of the others 
was that labor must divorce itself from these twin evils if it 
ever expected to gain consideration from not only the employ¬ 
ers, but the professional element, and the church as well. What 

[219] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


they represented was law, and order, and these must be main¬ 
tained at all hazards. There should be a constant glorifica¬ 
tion of democracy to the average man which should be an 
inspiration to attainment whereby he could conceive of free¬ 
dom in an individual sense and this freedom would imply an 
ideal of democratic brotherhood. 

To this Mr. Neebe gave the answer that no man could 
conceive of such a freedom unless he really was free, with 
leisure to acquire a knowledge of democracy. His own work 
had been to organize unions amongst trades which were 
oppressed by long hours and meager wages, and he related 
how he had found the bakers of the city helpless to improve 
their almost impossible conditions until the power of a union 
compelled an entirely different state of affairs, not only as to 
hours and wages but to sanitary conditions of working, 
as well. He instanced the hardships of the workers in the 
breweries who left their homes as early as four o’clock in the 
morning and could not return until seven at night, which 
practically shut them away from their families during all of 
the daylight hours. 

Under new union rules not only could they command 
reasonable hours, but living wages as well. Neebe thought 
democracy was a misnomer when it was necessary by com¬ 
pulsion to establish decency in these living conditions. It 
would be a fine thing if all labor could be organized to bring 
about acquiescence to its reasonable demands through peaceful 
measures, but there was even a very intense and bitter feeling 
against unionism in many employing quarters, which was 
entirely unjustified. If labor could obtain its just deserts 
through organizations which stood for peace it should be 
encouraged especially by the clergy, and the authorities, but 
he was free to say that in those directions he saw the fewest 
signs of promise. The church stood for humanism and 
brotherhood in theory, certainly, but in practice there were 
none so ignorant of the existing facts of labor conditions and 
the union methods of improving them, as they. It all resolved 
itself in Neebe’s mind into a probability of a fear on the part 
of the clergy of offending those in their pews who employed 
labor and were non-union themselves. 


[220] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


The Protestant churches especially were well patronized 
by the well-to-do classes, who as a rule, knew little or nothing 
about the living conditions of the toilers. Neebe’s talk was 
conciliatory, but he inferred that unless the employers were 
more favorable to the recognition of unions there would be 
difficulties of another kind to face, and the time not far distant, 
at that. Fielden’s talk was that of a humanitarian. He was 
cognizant of international conditions in labor fields and saw 
very clearly that the worker was in no mood to be kept from 
greater opportunity. He believed that capital was simply 
stored up surplus produced by labor and taken away from the 
rightful owners, viz., the men who created it. He had always 
worked long hours and had never received more than enough 
to provide a scanty living for himself and his dependents and 
it had stimulated him to devote what time he could to try to 
better the conditions of his class. 

It had always, until very recently, been his belief that the 
ballot would right all of the wrongs which he found surround¬ 
ing him in America, but he was beginning to see, as others did, 
that the political machines which controlled the ballot were 
themselves the creatures of Capitalism and there was no hope 
for the genuine apostle of labor in that direction—he must 
look elsewhere. There were now in Chicago some very vigor¬ 
ous and outspoken disciples of direct action and he admired 
their courage and determination. While he was not an advo¬ 
cate of physical force, there must be some attitude of self- 
defense taken by labor which would command the respect of 
its enemies. In his rounds in those sections of the city where 
these labor leaders had a following, there was considerable 
talk of the cheapness and power of destruction in dynamite 
and even the knowledge of the manufacture of bombs was dis¬ 
seminated by certain groups. It was asserted that a body of 
police, or militia, would have no show as against dynamite. 
The argument uniformly used by labor was that the police and 
the militia were only to defend capital against any disturbances 
which might arise, and no service was ever rendered to labor 
by these organizations. And, too, on the other hand, the ele¬ 
ments of force represented by them had been frequently used 
against labor in its efforts to win its ends by strikes—the only 
weapon it possessed to secure its demands. 

[221] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


The police force especially could not reconcile itself to the 
intellectual elements represented by Socialism—they could not 
understand—were not mentally equipped to comprehend any 
propaganda which had logic behind it. It was as though these 
socialists represented themselves to be a superior set of per¬ 
sonages who talked from undignified soap boxes and other 
public places, using words which a policeman knew little about. 
The police captains and lieutenants knew nothing of philo¬ 
sophical systems, and cared less. Undoubtedly there were many 
honest men on the force but one who is at all cognizant of 
political conditions knows the degree of rottenness which per¬ 
vades the whole system, and the police especially are not 
immune from its influences. 

What shall we say then when a factor in the population 
is ground between the mill-stones and finds conditions grad¬ 
ually growing worse? Would the time not come when these 
people would say: “Damn law and order! We have obeyed 
law and order long enough. The time has come to strangle 
the law, or the law will strangle us.” 

Fielden was now at the end of his talk which had been 
forceful and argumentative and, to those who felt any degree 
of sympathy, was a rather convincing one. It conveyed the 
very distinct impression of being delivered by a man who was 
entirely cognizant of the temper of the working classes just 
at this time, and the fact that unions had been organized suc¬ 
cessfully by Mr. Neebe and others, which were so prolific of 
good results, tended to show that labor was now ready to place 
itself in the saddle and give battle to a conclusion. Those who 
attended this conference certainly became convinced that the 
atmosphere was dangerously charged and some happening 
might occur at any time to “rip things wide open.” 

Mackintire sensed the danger in his concluding remarks, 
which appealed for fairplay for both sides to the issue and 
made a strong point of personal contact through which com¬ 
mon plans of agreement might be arrived at. “We all know 
the shortsightedness of letting these grievances run to the 
breaking point and it is much wiser to take them in hand 
before human passions are made the basis of arguments.” And 
so the bringing together of these men passed into history as 
representing the futile effort of a few unselfish souls to try to 

[222] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


introduce the spirit of the brotherhood of humanity into the 
competitive life of an age that was fast driving towards the 
rocks of greed and selfishness. The shadows of the coming 
night gathered themselves ominously for the useless conflict. 

* * * * 

May 1, 1886, was the May Day of Labor when the edict 
went forth that thereafter eight hours should constitute a 
day’s work. Along in March of the same year the works of 
the McCormick Harvester Company had been shut down and 
twelve hundred men locked out, and now their places were 
being filled by “scabs” under the protection of private “gun 
men.” The determination of labor to get its eight hour rule 
through a great strike, if necessary, was an encouragement to 
the locked out men of the McCormick works, and now that on 
the first day of May twenty-five thousand others had laid down 
their tools and declared their position, the McCormick men 
felt they had plenty of co-operation in their fight. 

Sunday, May 2nd, passed quietly, excepting that numerous 
meetings of strikers and others were addressed by the various 
talented speakers of labor and Socialism and these audiences 
stirred to great depths by the denunciations hurled at the 
employers and the system maintained by them. The opening 
of the week promised to be one of turbulence and no one could 
foresee the trend which the outbreak would take. The two 
working class papers, the Arbeiter-Zeitung and The Alarm, 
were full of editorials and news of a revolutionary nature and 
it only needed a lighted match to set off the conflagration. 
A meeting had been called for the afternoon of Monday, 
May 3rd, in the vicinity of the McCormick works and it is 
estimated that as many as twenty thousand gathered there. 
August Spies, the editor of the Arbeiter-Zeitung, was there 
to speak and at first was hooted at as a Socialist by the Poles 
and Bohemians who were evidently acting at the suggestions 
of their priests. However, he was later allowed to go on with 
his address. It soon became evident that trouble was brewing 
and the cry arose: “On to the McCormick works and get 
the ‘scabs’!” There was a general rush with sticks and stones 
and a few pistols. Soon wagonloads of policemen arrived on 
the scene and began beating back the people, and firing over 

[223] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


their heads. The stone throwing soon became severe enough 
to cause the police to shoot into the crowd, and then men and 
boys were seen to fall from bullet wounds and it looked as 
though quite a number were killed and wounded. The police 
were not long in getting the upper hand and soon clubbed the 
crowd into submission. Spies was very much agitated by the 
situation, coming as it did right after his address, and left 
for the office of his paper to turn in a report of what had 
occurred. In his intense excitement he also wrote what after¬ 
wards was termed the famous revenge circular which brought 
on more serious results. Quite a number were printed and 
scattered around in the different halls and saloons where the 
men congregated. It read as follows: 

REVENGE! WORKINGMEN, TO ARMS. Your 
masters sent out their bloodhounds, the police. They killed six 
of your brothers at McCormick’s this afternoon; they killed 
the poor wretches because they had the courage to disobey 
the supreme will of your bosses; they killed them because they 
dared to ask for the shortening of the hours of toil; they killed 
them to show you free American citizens, that you must be 
satisfied and contented with whatever your bosses condescend 
to allow you, or you too will be killed. You have for years 
suffered immeasurable iniquities; you have worked yourself 
to death; you have endured the pangs of want and hunger; 
your children you have sacrificed to the factory lords. In 
short—you have been miserable and obedient slaves all these 
years. 

If you are men; if you are the sons of your grandsires 
who shed their blood to free you, then you will rise in your 
might, Hercules, and destroy the hideous monster that seeks 
to destroy you. To arms ! We call you to arms! 

In this issue of May 4th the editorial was in headlines of 
large type with the word “BLOOD” as the leader. Then 
followed: 

“Lead and powder as a cure for dissatisfied workmen. 
About six laborers mortally, and about four times that num¬ 
ber, slightly wounded. Thus are the eight hour men to be 
intimidated. This is law and order. Brave girls parading 
the city; the law and order beast frightens the hungry children 
away with clubs.” 


[224] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


The strikers by this time totalled about forty thousand, 
and the city was in a ferment, knowing not what might happen 
at any moment. In order that the workingmen might be kept 
cheered up so that they would stand together in case of an 
attack a meeting was called for Tuesday evening, May 4th, 
at the Haymarket, in Randolph street, at the corner of Des- 
plaines street, which was a central location and in a neighbor¬ 
hood much frequented by the different groups and bodies of 
the workers. It was announced by handbills and in the differ¬ 
ent papers, and as the space was ample, undoubtedly there 
would be a great crowd gathered out of both interest and 
curiosity, for the daily press was full of the happenings that 
were being enacted, publishing sensational articles in which a 
little truth was hidden in a mass of fabrication and falsehood. 

Ernest and Tessa had been very much excited over the 
rapid progress of events since the conference and they were 
now well aware that if there was not a definite conspiracy 
to make the eight hour strike a signal for revolt, at least cer¬ 
tain elements would use the occasion to inflame the workers 
to commit overt acts and draw the enmity of the police. In 
order to be eye-witnesses to these actual occurrences they had 
frequently attended such meetings as they conveniently could 
and as May 1st became an actuality they were active in observ¬ 
ing the methods the workers took to gain their purpose. 

On Monday, hearing of the disturbance at McCormick’s, 
they took a street car to see how a crowd of twenty thousand 
would act if incited by speakers to attack a property of this 
magnitude. They had listened to the talk of Spies and had 
seen from a distance some of the rioting that followed when 
the excited mob headed for the gate of the Harvester works. 
Then came the call for the police and the hurried arrival of 
the patrol wagons filled with the blue-coats. There was much 
throwing of stones and bricks and a number of the officers 
were hit when, in order to disperse the growing mob and pro¬ 
tect themselves, they drew their revolvers and commenced a 
determined fire. This resulted in a large number of casualties 
and the rapid melting away of the attackers with great sullen¬ 
ness and mutterings of revenge on the police and the capitalists 
whose guardians they were. When Ernest and Tessa returned 
to the Walt Whitman House that evening they had seen more 

[225] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


realism than had ever been theirs to witness. It was all so 
drab and inglorious, and the words of William Morris echoed 
in Ernest’s ears: “Education towards Revolution” was abso¬ 
lutely essential. What would, or could, this untrained mob do 
for themselves? Or what responsibilities could they assume 
if such were offered them? They who had always acted under 
the command of someone above them, who did their thinking 
for them and charging them with the performance of their 
duties. He realized that the road to freedom was yet a long, 
long path, and must be traveled for many generations before 
the blushing of the crimson dawn. 

Yet here was the very work in which he was engaged and 
which he had chosen for his life work, and it was one of the 
most valuable of the stepping stones to a time when these 
ambitions should be realized. He saw clearer than ever the 
duty which lay before him—he must go on with an even greater 
determination. Art and Democracy! Yes, that was the real 
slogan for life and they must be secured by the growing educa¬ 
tion of the human brain without the directing force of physical 
insistance. 

He gave his thoughts to Tessa and their conversation 
resolved itself into this conclusion in which both felt the 
inward sanction of approval. These days were bringing Ernest 
and Tessa closer together in their harmony of thought and 
action. The conservatism of the one was a complement to the 
alertness of the other; they both realized the value of the 
counter-balance and were stimulated in their desire to be of 
service by the faith that rested so confidently—each in the 
other. 

A warm and moist April had brought the early May to a 
glory of vernal beauty. In the spacious grounds around the 
Walt Whitman House the voices of spring were heard in the 
notes of the joyous birds while the fresh young leaves were 
developing into thick foliage everywhere. The lilacs had burst 
into bloom as if feeling the impatience of the season to utter 
their part in the song of Nature. At is was the month of 
Whitman’s birthday, Ernest had written his usual poem in com¬ 
memoration of the event. The evening of the day of the 
trouble at McCormick’s after they had returned was so entic¬ 
ing that they went out into the garden to experience the delight 

[226] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


of the springtime manifest everywhere. Ernest, in the presence 
of the blooming lilacs, recited to Tessa the poem he had written 
in honor of old Walt, which he called “LILAC FLAMES.” 

White and purple flames of love 
Burn fiercely on the lilacs — 

The heart burst of spring 
That speaks God's voice 
To youth. 

The world of laughing flame — 

A blazing torch 

To light spring's bridal feast 

Of blossomed petals — 

Fragile white faces — 

Long buried winter sweetness 
Drawn to a gateway 
Of sun's desire. 

Is this the heart 

Of Divinity 

Opening itself 

To a resurrection of hope f 

The warmth of a great love 
Is in this laughing flame 
Where the wind wooer 
Plays his lisping flute. 

Faint wood voices call 
With the green spirit breath 
Of untired trees, 

Whose newborn leaves 
Make another sky 
To the forest — 

A blue canopy hidden 
By the clasp of branches 
Born to each other's arms 
Where tender leaves kiss. 

'Tis now, this symphony of Nature, 

In which there sounds the triumph of spring, 

[22 7 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


Leads the procession of virgins 
To a sun 

Whose white-hot flames burns them to fruition. 

“I am the wind wooer, Tessa, playing my lisping flute, 
and my heart is opening itself like the flowers in the growing 
spring. All life now seems so beautiful to me that I cannot 
hold back the things which I have wanted to say to you for 
so long. I do not know whether your heart responds or not, 
but I have tonight that resurrection of hope which dares me to 
say I love you and how much I need that you should come 
into my life and make it complete.” 

Noticing that Tessa was not impatient at this broken out¬ 
burst on his part, and that she appeared not to resent it, he 
was encouraged to believe that his plea was not a hopeless one. 

“We have a common cause in our life interest, and while 
our inheritances are different, they seem to complement one 
another. Just tell me, Tessa, that my lisping flute is not labor¬ 
ing in vain and that you have in your heart a little response to 
what I am telling you in such awkward phrases. Here is a 
lilac branch which I have broken off for you—it is the Spring 
blossoming of my heart’s love for you—take it, and I shall then 
know that you do so in token of a common pledge.” 

Tessa stood mute and unstrung for a moment, and Ernest 
could see on her face, now upturned to the light of the moon, 
a look of gentle softness and a sadness which revealed the 
depths of her inner feelings. It is the time in a young girl’s 
life when the point of culmination of all her hopes and fears 
are brought to her sudden presence—when she must take her 
fate in her own hands and decide the most momentous prob¬ 
lem of her life. All nature calls in her to respond if she loves 
the man who is beseeching her, and to repel if she does not, for 
it is the budding of the romance of life where the sweetness of 
the accomplished years gives its burst of finished expression. 
Ernest felt confident now that his cause was won, for as the 
tears fell slowly down her cheeks he knew the inward struggle 
was not to find words with which to send him away, but rather 
she was searching her heart to assure herself that her mind was 
fully made up to tell him what he was so impatient to know. 

At last she found herself and, leaning her head upon his 

[228] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


shoulder, she said: “Kiss me, Ernest; it is the seal of my love 
for you, for when you conquered yourself that first night at the 
embarrassment of the unexpected appearance of my father and 
mother and myself, and continued your wonderful talk on the 
comparison of the temperaments of Rossetti and Ruskin, you 
revealed to me your true manhood and determination, and then 
at least was awakened in me the feeling of respect and admira¬ 
tion for you. This has since grown as I have had the privilege 
of your companionship, and now that your feelings have blos¬ 
somed into love, even though they appear in the tones of a 
lisping flute, it is the heart of divinity opening itself to the 
resurrection of a hope which does not fail, for in my response 
there is the assurance of that resurrection. I would have you 
know, Ernest, that what is called marriage has to me no sacred 
significance beyond the common acknowledgment that it rests 
solely on the tie of a mutual love. When love dies marriage 
dissolves. There is promise in our love, Ernest, because it is 
born, not only of the attachment of each of us for the other, 
but because, too, of our devotion to a higher cause—that of the 
individuals to which we have consecrated our lives. Those 
whose lives are concerned with the solution of the problems of 
misery which enter into the environment of so many are less 
likely themselves to be affected by the petty annoyances which 
go to make up the commonness of ordinary marriage. The 
marriage relation at the best is a trip over dangerous ground 
upon which even ‘angels fear to tread,’ but I recognize that 
under our present immature knowledge of psychology it must 
remain in force. Lives enchained by the State suggest the 
greater freedom of a pure anarchy where there is no coercion— 
only self government.” 

“Well, Tessa,” said Ernest, “don’t carry your argumenta¬ 
tion so far as to make it clear to you that you have made a 
mistake. You know it is possible to make one’s self believe 
anything if one thinks about it long enough. I am terribly glad 
to make the experiment with you, and I have no doubt of its 
success. I am fastening this sprig of lilac over your heart as a 
token of the purple flame of love which I feel for you.” 

As they passed the opened window of the music room the 
stirring chorus of the young men’s voices, led by Fritz, sounded 

[229] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


out to them as though, with lifted cups, they were drinking the 
first song of health to the newborn love. 

For it’s always fair weather 
When good fellows get together 
With a stein on the table 
In the fellowship of Spring. 

But when later in the night Ernest, struggling in the joy 
of his dream of a new-found love, restlessly glanced through 
his window at the full moon riding at its zenith, he saw it 
crossed by straggling clouds, fleeting fancies to be sure, but 
still like some discordant note spoiling the harmony of his 
dreams. “Ah! Life, thou standest before me like a white sen¬ 
tinel, showing the new path by which my feet shall go from this 
time forth. 0, purple fields of dream life, my feet walking r on 
the soft faced grasses, my arm encircling, my lips joining in a 
willing comradeship. Through the purple mist of some mystic 
garden stirs the shadow of a new found life , born of Nature’s 
art, transformed to sensuous beauty.” 

* * * * 

The next day was Tuesday, May 4th, and Ernest awoke 
to the ecstatic realization that an important change had come 
to him and that hereafter his whole life would be tinged with 
a new relationship. He could scarcely wait until he should 
dress and get down to the library, where the telephone was 
placed, that he might call up St. Caroline’s Court and speak to 
Tessa to see if all was well with her and confess those little 
intimacies of speech which are so sweet to the newly confessed 
lovers. Finding that she would be occupied all day, he said he 
would come for her in the evening, as he had learned of a 
meeting being called at the Haymarket to cheer up the working 
men, that they would stand together in case of an attack. They 
could start out about half past eight and walk directly down 
Randolph Street to the place of meeting, which was not far. 
There was sure to be a large crowd there, as well as in all of 
the halls in the neighborhood, on account of the strike and the 
great excitement prevailing everywhere because of the riot at 
McCormick’s the day before. 

During the morning Mackintire called, full of apprehen- 
[230] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


sion as to the outcome of the situation. He had heard through 
Demarest that the police were looking for an excuse to make 
trouble, and he was afraid of a collision now at any time which 
might have far-reaching results. Ernest informed him of his 
intention to go to the Haymarket that night to observe what 
might take place and learn, if he could, through the speakers, 
of any new features in their program. He felt quite sure that 
if the audience was stimulated by what was said, there might 
be some direct action taken there and then. It had been 
rumored about that bombs were being made for the express 
purpose of wrecking the different police stations, and if this 
were so, it surely would lead to a terrific conflict. When eve¬ 
ning came Ernest walked over to St. Caroline’s Court and 
found Tessa ready and anxious to go, as the experiences of the 
day before had stimulated her desires to see things in action, 
and she really hoped that the revolution was now to become an 
actuality. Ernest said he thought not—that any demonstration 
would be quickly suppressed, as it had been the day before, and 
that the people were not ready for a revolution at this time. 
Those who died in a street riot would be yielding up their lives 
without any corresponding gain. He thought the meeting 
would be as peaceful as usual, as he did not think the police 
would attack unless there was provocation, and there could be 
none at such a gathering as this. So they started out without 
any apprehension, but rather with the prospect of getting into a 
great crowd and learning much of many things by reason of 
the conversations they might be able to overhear. 

Upon arriving at the corner of Randolph and Desplaines 
Streets, they found the street to the north toward Lake Street 
blocked with a crowd of two thousand persons, smoking and 
talking, while upon a truck opposite the Crane Company’s 
place, just north of the alley, a group of three or four men 
were just about ready to start the speaking. Parsons and 
Fielden were to do the talking that evening, but as neither had 
as yet arrived, Spies, who was already to perform the necessary 
service, started in to talk until the others should come. He 
spoke in German or English, whichever the nationality of the 
audience indicated, and soon had them in hand by his stirring 
recount of the incidents of the day before and how necessary 
it was now that every workingman should be armed and pre- 

[231] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


pared for what might come at any moment. An occasional 
applause and vocal response saying, “We will be ready for 
them,” and kindred remarks showed that the listeners were on 
edge and ready for any emergency. When Parsons arrived 
and mounted the truck there was a great shout and many calls 
to “go at them” and “give it to them,” knowing from his pre¬ 
vious addresses that he would not limit his language, especially 
after the McCormick affair. He certainly was a man who 
knew no fear and was relentless in his speaking and writing 
against those whom he construed to be the heartless slave- 
drivers of the workers. 

His talk was forceful and vigorous, and the crowd stood 
on tiptoes at his bursts of impassioned eloquence. No leader 
of the French Revolution could have animated a mass of people 
better than he, and his shafts of invective and sarcasm driven 
at the police and other guardians of law and order excited the 
crowd to a high pitch. Angry and sullen looks were visible on 
many faces, and it would have taken only a word from the 
speaker to have started the mob in any direction. When he 
spoke of such men as Jay Gould as being typical of the heart¬ 
less millionaires who ground labor to its smallest pittance the 
crowd yelled “Hang him!” But Parsons only said: “No, that 
would do no good—there would be plenty like him left to take 
his place.” 

He argued against the system which produced such men, 
and called them the victims of circumstances, just as much so 
as were the members of the crowd that stood before him. And 
so he held the destiny of the evening’s events in his hand and 
talked for an hour, while a storm threatened, at which a large 
part of the crowd went away, leaving only two or three hun¬ 
dred to hear what Fielden would have to say in closing. 
Fielden was a logical talker, not an orator like Parsons, but 
argumentative, and was well liked by the slow but sure thinkers 
amongst the working class. The change in the weather had 
taken a lot of the enthusiasm out of the crowd, and of course 
the fact that only a comparatively small number remained, 
caused Fielden to limit what he had to say to the few minutes 
he knew remained before all would be ready to leave for 
home, for it was now after ten o’clock. 

Ernest and Tessa listened to every word of the speeches, 

[ 232 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


and remarked to each other of the effect made upon the hearers, 
noticing especially that the feeling excited was a deep one and 
there was a general expression of a desire to “get even” for the 
savage work of the police the day before. They got a place, 
leaning against the Crane Company’s building exactly opposite 
the truck upon which the speakers stood, thinking in case the 
storm broke they would have greater protection there. Just as 
Fielden had concluded his arguments and was about to say his 
final words, someone on the edge of the crowd towards Ran¬ 
dolph Street cried out, “The police are coming,” and soon 
there appeared at the corner several squads or bodies number¬ 
ing in all about two hundred—nearly as many as there were 
people standing in the street around the speakers’ truck. The 
police turned the corner and marched directly through the 
crowd to the truck, and the Captain spoke sharply and loudly, 
commanding the meeting to disperse in the name of the authori¬ 
ties of the City of Chicago and State of Illinois. As the 
speaker, Fielden, was about through, he started down to the 
sidewalk, saying in response: “We are a peaceable meeting, 
we will go.” 

Just at that moment, from a spot in the sidewalk about 
fifteen feet south of the alley, a curving line of light was seen 
to ascend as if thrown by some one standing in the crowd, and 
after rising a few feet in the air came down in the midst of 
the police, and a bomb burst with a terrific detonation. It was 
a dynamite bomb filled with slugs and ragged bits of steel, 
which created an awful havoc amongst the closely formed 
battalions. These were in a panic at once and lost to every 
sense excepting that of self-preservation, not knowing what 
had happened or from whom it came. With their revolvers 
drawn, they fired any way and anywhere until their ammuni¬ 
tion was exhausted, killing and wounding some of their own 
number in their confusion. In fact, the sight of a large num¬ 
ber from their ranks who were shot or injured by the bomb 
was appalling, and they lost all sense of coolness and sanity in 
the happenings that immediately followed. 

Ernest was terribly startled at the explosion and the panic 
which ensued, as he realized the danger Tessa was in on 
account of their nearness to it all, and as the bullets continued 
to strike the wall of the building against which they were lean- 

[ 233 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


ing, and the cries of the excited people and the police resounded 
in their ears, his only thought was how he could get Tessa 
away from it all and to a place of safety. She was dumb with 
the sudden fright which had come without a second’s warning 
and did not really comprehend what was taking place. 

Indeed, such experiences in the happening last but a few 
seconds, but seem interminable in their duration. Tessa had 
lost all sense of direction and was rooted to the spot, powerless 
to move excepting as the crowd wildly rushed and shoved her 
here and there as they dodged to escape the flying bullets of 
the police. Ernest finally turned north towards Lake Street, 
thinking to reach the corner and then turn east out of the way 
of danger. He placed Tessa in front of him, holding her by 
the shoulders so that he might both protect and direct her in 
their escape. The flashes of fire from the revolvers lit up the 
street and the noise and cries were deafening. 

Scarcely had they started, with Tessa in front of him, than 
he felt the swift passage of some object between his arm and 
his body, and in a second he realized that it was a bullet which 
had spared him but had gone straight as an arrow into the 
tender body of one who was all in all to him. She crumpled in 
an instantaneous collapse and dropped to the sidewalk before 
he could catch her, and there in the light of the flashing pistols 
he saw the little trickling stream of blood around her which 
told the terrible story. He was wild with the overwhelming 
sense of grief and helplessness which came to him, but finally, 
with the hope that the wound might not prove serious, he 
induced one of the flying crowd to help him carry her senseless 
form to the corner and, seeing lights in the place called Zepf’s 
Hall, crossed the street and carried her in and to the rear, 
where she could lie on one of the tables until a physician 
arrived. 

In the hall, fortunately, he found Mr. and Mrs. Parsons 
and Mrs. Holmes, the assistant editor of the Alarm, who, upon 
seeing the tragedy which had been enacted, immediately offered 
their assistance. Tessa could not be aroused. Her face was 
the pallor of death, and the blood continued to flow from the 
wound, which appeared to be in the region of the heart. She 
still breathed, but very faintly, and the moments seemed hours 
while they awaited the appearance of a surgeon—too valuable 

[ 234 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


moments to lose with a life in the balance. The examination 
showed a mortal wound, and her life could only be prolonged 
for an indefinite few minutes. Consciousness slightly returned 
under the influence of the restoratives, and Tessa half opened 
her eyes—as if in a troubled dream. A movement of her lips 
caused the despairing Ernest to lean over her as if to catch 
any audible sound, and he heard her say: “Let us go to the 
Champs Elysees to see the horse chestnuts in bloom, Marie; 
it is such a beautiful day. I know what love is now” The 
fluttering eyelids closed and a little tremble shook her frame— 
then a straightening out of the limbs, as if the journey was 
over forever. 

Ernest realized now that this was death, and his Tessa lost 
to him beyond recall. He broke down completely. Mr. Par¬ 
sons took him by the hand and said, “My dear young brother, 
you have my heart full of sympathy in this affliction through 
which you are passing; there is nothing that you can do—this 
life for her is ended. She has died witnessing, as so many 
others have, the struggle of the people to redeem themselves 
from the slavery of the masters. Such sacrifices there must 
be—the ages are full of the scars of lives that have gone out 
that others might live better and more beautifully. Let us hope 
that this sacrifice has not been in vain, and, although it has, the 
great day of redemption is a step nearer its realization.” 

To Ernest the abject sense of despair and hopelessness 
came rushing over him as the lines of Omar flashed again 
across his mind: 

“And that inverted bowl men call the sky 
Whereunder crawling , we live and die; 

Lift not thy hands to it for help, 

For it rolls , impotently, as thou or I.” 


[235 ] 


CHAPTER VI 


The Wine of Circe 
Ashes and Roses 

The leaves of the cypress trees hang thick and heavy 
Today, in Love's beautiful garden. 

The rain descends from a windless sky 
Whose sullen clouds are stagnant and dead. 

All Nature's forces press against an unresponsive heart 
Whose joyous throbs echo in the past alone 
And look with vacant eyes on a tearful world. 

O crowded treasure house of Memory, 

How softly do thy kindly illusions 

Wrap the drapery of tenderness about my new-opened wound. 

Ernest could read no more, and he closed the book with 
the tears softly flowing down as if they would never cease. He 
sat in the window of the library where he could look out to the 
garden, and the lilacs which pictured to him again and again 
that beautiful last night of Tessa’s life. How every word and 
every little mannerism of hers came back to him as the mental 
pictures passed, and then returned to pass once more. 

The days since the terrible event had fled into weeks, and 
there seemed to grow a more grievous burden with each coming 
day. O, the mornings when the awakening brought to him the 
crushing sense of his loss and how irreparable it all was. The 
world was full of kindness and tender sympathy for him, and, 
too, for Mr. and Mrs. Breckinridge, who had never known 
grief before, and who were now completely stunned and knew 
not which way to turn. It was pitiful to witness the burden of 
the blow with the sense of helplessness and hopelessness which 
spelled its significance. 

The one person whose presence and words of cheer com¬ 
forted them at all was Mackintire. Through this experience 

[ 236 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


they learned to love and lean upon him as in the confidence of 
an intimate friend. His bearing of the tranquil philosopher, 
who accepted the inevitable and turned grief aside in the pres¬ 
ence of a greater duty, in the interests of which these personal 
passing vents lost their poignancy, brought the relief of a 
nature which can forget for the moment, at least, in something 
beyond his personal experience of unpleasant and distressful 
happenings. 

While his active sympathy was freely bestowed, he seemed 
to point to them the inheritance which must come through their 
bitter loss. The culmination of the events of the first May 
days, in the fatal event in the Haymarket; the resulting out¬ 
burst of the feelings of the multitudes who took up the cry at 
at once, “Crucify them! Crucify them!” meant that a day of 
vengeance was at hand for those whose activities in behalf of 
labor had brought about the disaster in which seven of the 
police had been killed and ten times that number injured. The 
cry went forth, “Seven lives sacrificed and seven more must 
be the recompense.” Justice and Mercy were led away blind¬ 
folded until the day of reckoning should have passed. No one 
ever knew, to reveal, who threw this bomb. 

The whole situation resolved itself into the proposition 
that the objective was a social revolution towards Communism 
in which the police and militia were to be warred upon as the 
guardians of the capitalistic system. The agitation of the 
speakers was for organization, and from there to rebellion, 
constituting conspiracy against the State. The psychology of 
all this was revolting to Mackintire, and he turned with all the 
might of his nature against the resurrection of the old Mosaic 
doctrine of “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,” which 
appeared to be the program now to be carried out. The same 
reaction he tried to impress on those whom he saw suffering 
from their sense of this close personal loss. He tried to turn 
their attention to the greater wrong which would soon be 
enacted unless some concerted action was taken to oppose it. 
In the days near at hand the trial of those who had been 
pointed out as the most active during the years which led up 
to the tragedy was to begin. From all indications the end could 
be seen from the beginning, but, nevertheless, a record would 
be made, and when it developed very soon that these men were 

[ 237 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


not to be tried for murder but for their social ideas, and were 
to be condemned by a jury of those whose minds were ready 
to convict as soon as they took their seats in the box regardless 
of the evidence produced, the trial settled down to a struggle 
of angry prejudice on the one hand and a stoic philosophy on 
the other. 

Ernest had carried away with him that terrible night the 
warmest recollections of the kindness and sympathy of Par¬ 
sons, and his heroic bearing through the stress and strain of 
the incidents associated with the unfortunate death of Tessa, 
and now that this man was on trial for his life, with scarcely 
a hope that he could save it, all the pent up inward sorrow that 
Ernest was nursing aroused him in an effort to be helpful to 
his friend. Both Mackintire and Ernest believed that the 
insanity of public opinion, fanned into flame by the press, 
would render futile any efforts which might be made to arouse 
a sentiment favorable to a decree of justice in this trial, but 
after all their courage failed when they realized the fact that 
the powers which controlled the press, the judge and the 
jury were those of a system whose very existence was at 
stake and must be maintained at any sacrifice of life and honor. 
And so, notwithstanding the fact that the jury was drawn by 
direct intention of the prejudiced employer class, the irregu¬ 
larity was winked at, and probably deliberately planned. Wit¬ 
nesses, too, whose reputation for veracity was subject to the 
most critical scrutiny of the defendant’s counsel, were shown 
to be unreliable and their stories improbable. When it could 
not be proven that any of the accused had thrown or directly 
caused the bomb to be thrown, then it became undeniably evi¬ 
dent that the men would be convicted for the agitation of those 
social ideas which they had promulgated so actively from the 
platform and through the press. When the unanimous verdict 
came after those eight long summer weeks of testimony and 
argument, and the decree was the scaffold for all excepting 
one, and his a long sentence of lonesome confinement, although 
he had said his guilt was equal to that of the others, the judge 
afforded each of the condemned an opportunity to stand and 
give his reason why this sentence should not be imposed. Then 
it was that the truly heroic nature of each one of these men 
asserted itself, and the words which were uttered, while the 

[ 238 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


shadow of the sentence of death was over them, were some of 
the most remarkable expressions for a deep and undying cause 
which had ever passed the lips of the martyrs at any time. 

Ernest knew that the foolishness of force had brought 
these men to a cul de sac from which there was no escape, 
but when he looked upon their calm and serene faces and saw 
there the set expression of resolution—of willingness to face 
and meet death for the cause which had become a part of them, 
he not only rejoiced with them, but there gradually came to 
him the positive reaction to a determination to be one of those 
who should “carry on” after the falling curtain had decreed 
the ending of this scene of the tragedy. This is assuredly 
what Tessa would have done, and he felt her whispered 
approval as he sat there in the court room while the hours 
rolled away that were all too few for those about to die. The 
echo of the words of Parsons, flowing like a never ceasing 
stream of cool, clear water, in his plea, not so much for himself 
as for justice and freedom from passion in a deliberation of 
this kind, showed Ernest of what stuff these men were made. 
He spoke for eight hours on two different days, beautifully, 
eloquently, without a tinge of malice but with a deliberate and 
forceful condemnation of the creatures of the system which 
was hurrying him to an untimely silence for all eternity. 

“Your Honor,” said he, “if there is one distinguishing 
characteristic which has made itself prominent in the conduct 
of this trial it has been the passion, the heat and the anger, 
the violence both to sentiment and to person, of everything 
connected with this case. For two months they have poured 
their poison upon me and upon my colleagues. For two months 
they have sat here and spat like adders the vile poison of their 
tongues, and if men could have been placed in a mental inquisi¬ 
tion and tortured to death, these men would have realized it 
here now; vilified, misrepresented, held in loathsome contempt, 
without a chance to speak or to contradict a word.” 

And in closing, after describing the burdens and hardships 
of his life and his tireless devotion to the cause of liberty and 
freedom, he shot his piercing eyes to the court and concluded: 
“I have nothing not even now to regret.” 

And thus the days of anxiety and stress were ended for 
the time being, until the final appeal to the governor for pardon 

[ 239 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


or clemency succeeded the setting of the facts of the trial 
before the Supreme Court of the State which was dismissed 
in a voluminous review of the proceedings in which the find¬ 
ing of the lower court was confirmed. The governor, further 
away from the battleground, could hold the scales a little more 
evenly and finally persuaded himself that two of the men— 
Fielden and Schwab—were not equally guilty with the others 
condemned to death, and softened their sentence to imprison¬ 
ment for life. This ended the matter, and there was no further 
relaxation in the grip by which the masters controlled the situ¬ 
ation. Now followed a period of disintegration of the furious 
hatreds which had been engendered in the hearts off both 
classes. The desperate suicide of Lingg the day before the 
execution; the serenity of those others about to die; the utter¬ 
ance by Spies of those immortal words: “The day will come 
when our silence will be more powerful than the voices you 
are throttling today.” 

The death scene; the great crowds in the streets; the turn¬ 
ing of the bodies over to the relatives and then the imposing 
procession of the workers as the bodies were carried away 
in sorrow and in silence, a procession buttressed by tens of 
thousands of sympathizers and of those who felt a relief 
that these men were forever dead: these were things indented 
in the memory of Ernest as he felt the burden of it all, as a 
great part of his personal bereavement, which was kept ever 
fresh in his memory until the curtain finally fell at the end of 
the tragedy. What more could he do? Where now could he 
turn? And then he felt the strong arm of Mackintire about 
him as the sense of his absolute desolation in the ending of all 
the excitement which had kept him away from himself so long. 

“Let me tell you, Ernest,” he said, “that you have been 
passing through a stress of darkness, it is the archway of life 
from which you must look into the future. There you will 
see your place, and the darkness of the archway will make the 
glory of the hope in that future all the more resplendent. 
You need a friend now, as Mr. Breckinridge needs a friend, 
although he is older and better able to endure this loss than 
are you. If you will permit me, I should like to confer with 
you both and I believe we may be able to formulate some 
immediate plan, which will not only distract your attention 

[ 240 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


from yourself, but will make a new start in the noble plan 
you have in contemplation. You and he both, when you come 
to a realizing sense of it all, will see that the glory of a sorrow 
is in the new sunlight which comes after the storm clouds 
have broken away. I am enthusiastic over the possibilities of 
Walt Whitman House and the greater consummation which 
lies in the future. Now that this tragedy has awakened the 
conscience in a lot of broadminded people we shall have a 
co-operation heretofore undreamed of. You know what my 
work has been in this city for the past five years, and in that 
time I have gathered about me some of the finest and most 
unselfish spirits that exist, and with their aid I should like 
to put my theories into practice. Here is the opportunity with 
Mr. Breckinridge and yourself as co-operators—we shall feel 
the happiness and grandeur of attainment—of giving vital 
expression to the things for which we have stood and because 
of which we have suffered poignantly. I am proud of you, 
Ernest, for your gentle spirit, and exhibition of true manhood 
during these trying days, has shown me the stuff that is in you. 

“Let us seize this opportune moment and hurry on while 
the dew is on the golden dawn.” 

No one who has not experienced the bitterness of the 
upheaval which had come into the life of a single-minded 
soul like Ernest’s, can appreciate the response which was 
awakened by this expression of a truly genuine friendship. 
He had not known in which direction to turn. The fires of 
excitement had sustained him until there was no more excite¬ 
ment to feed upon. Heretofore he had turned to Mr. Breckin¬ 
ridge, for the sterling good sense and acumen of this man 
was his mainstay in times of uncertainty and hesitation. Now 
the man was broken and the nearer duty towards the shattered 
life of Tessa’s mother demanded his closest attention. He was 
kind and sympathizing with Ernest, for he realized the great 
sorrow that was in his heart, but just now there must be a 
closer friend who stood just outside the immediate circle, yet 
near enough to step into the breach and control the situation 
with a firm hand. Mackintire was peculiarly fitted for just 
this purpose, and his good sense in maintaining the balance at 
this critical time, proved the salvation of Ernest and he soon 

[ 241 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


found that he was awakening from his lethargy and taking an 
interest in the daily happenings at the House. 

While they were awaiting an opportunity to confer with 
Mr. Breckinridge, as the latter thought that he would be able 
to devote some time in the near future, for the purpose of dis¬ 
cussing the development of the larger scheme in contempla¬ 
tion on a comprehensive basis, the art work was carried on 
as usual. The center of interest just at present was a study of 
the style and technique of Edward Burne-Jones, who had for 
nearly half a century been such an important factor in the art 
world of England. He was a near friend and co-laborer with 
William Morris and their work was closely interwoven. Of 
practically the same age and with congenial family relations 
their work developed in a way which suggested the fitting of 
one needful individuality into that of the other. Their life 
thoughts had not always run in the same channels but in the 
one idea of making life the expression of beauty there was 
co-operation which knew no limitations. Ruskin had said that 
“Art is joy in labor’’; but unlike Ruskin the question of moral¬ 
ity did not enter into the conception of either Morris or Burne- 
Jones. 

Art to them was not featured or limited by morality, and 
it was well that they built upon this broad foundation. What 
higher conception of art than the joy of labor is there, know¬ 
ing that all joyous labor is beauty producing? These reflec¬ 
tions in Ernest’s mind came as he was turning the pages of 
an English art magazine which illustrated some of the more 
striking imaginings of Burne-Jones. He stopped at the page 
which depicted the old Greek legend of the “Wine of Circe.” 
This was one of Burne-Jones’ early water colors at the time 
he was under the influence of Rossetti, and showed now, after 
twenty-five years, the great promise the artist held in his hands 
for the awakening of this newer type of expression. The 
romantic and idealistic deeply tinged his imagination, and as his 
methods and individualism unfolded in the very prolific years 
which followed, it was seen to faithfully carry out his instruc¬ 
tor’s admonition to “remember that the true object of art is to 
create a world, not to imitate what is constantly before one’s 
eyes.” 

Under the influence of Rossetti his mind became saturated 
[ 242 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


with the vivid atmosphere of the Arthurian legends; but later, 
as he gradually got away from Rossetti, the word pictures of 
Chaucer awakened him to a sense of homage to the gold which 
was therein to be mined. Chaucer had drunk deeply at the 
fountain of Boccaccio, so that Burne-Jones’ inheritance was, 
after all, that of Rossetti who owed so much to Dante. This 
is one reason why Burne-Jones’ work is sometimes suggestive 
of Botticelli, whose elusive coloring is becoming more and more 
the admiration of the modern student of art. Ernest could 
not break away from the fascination of all this, for it was 
because he had called the attention of Jerome Homer to the 
picture of the “Wine of Circe” that the latter explained to 
him what Burne-Jones’ inheritances were. 

“We must by all means have a course of lectures on this 
interesting subject,” said Ernest, “and I hope you will be will¬ 
ing to take the time to open the discussion.” 

“Yes, I shall be glad to do so,” said Jerome, “as long as 
we are in correspondence with Burne-Jones’ best and closest 
friend, William Morris; through that relationship we may get 
nearer to the former in some very interesting ways of which 
we know not now, I shall feel a double interest in discussing 
his very much diversified work. It is to be regretted that we 
in America know so little about these men and what they are 
doing to excite the imagination with a love for the beautiful 
on the other side of the ocean, another world, in fact, which 
receives into its possession and holds tightly to these visible 
manifestations the expanding mind of idealism. You know, 
that aside from his very generous productions of water colors, 
and oil, he is, at the instigation of Morris, designing and draw¬ 
ing prodigiously in stained glass work, Gobelins and Mosaics, 
which mean new fields of cultivation for the particular phases 
of romantic art of which he is the master. His work is essen¬ 
tially literary in character, so that one feels, in witnessing his 
production, the eager interest in a further study of the subject 
handled. This leads me into the realm of legend and myth 
where the wells of imaginative life are always flowing with a 
deep and beautiful sense of the unattainable. However, it is 
in this stress of imagination that art will more and more give 
us visions of the better and fuller life which is destined for 
mankind. We think with all these modem inventions that 

[ 243 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


we are realizing industrially—those which save labor and do 
things for man what he should beautifully do for himself, we 
are developing a great progress. We shall awake some day 
to a realization that we are headed in absolutely the wrong 
direction, but we shall also find out how necessary it was to 
have gone through this “sturm und drang” period in the his¬ 
tory of man, to give us a taste for the real enjoyment of life. 
Every time I see a smoking factory or hear a noisy railroad, 
or street car, rattling one’s nerves to distraction, and look 
about and see the human wrecks, which what we call civiliza¬ 
tion has made, I send a voluntary cry to whatever power there 
may be, that the human mind shall soon be brought to a con¬ 
sciousness of the terrible road upon which it is traveling; that 
it will make us turn about towards something for our existence, 
so infinitely superior to what we now experience as to cause 
us to laugh at the ridiculousness of the old and to sorrow at our 
long sufferings; then to decide without hesitation, on the mani¬ 
festly higher plane in which it will place us and cause us to 
wonder why we never demanded it before. Why should we be 
surrounded by pinched and unhappy, crime-marked faces— 
the dregs and derelicts of humanity which meet us at every 
turn—fellows like ourselves with the same royal possibilities 
which, for one reason or another, have been neglected or 
unsought? It is not natural for young lives not to seek joy 
and happiness and to try by all that is in them to realize the 
beautiful that touches them at every turn. Why should we 
have slums, and jails, and saloons, and police? They would 
all disappear if every one had an opportunity, and there was 
no incentive to commit crime or reason to try to take advan¬ 
tage of another. I don’t know, Ernest, why I have entered 
into this long dissertation about life—it seems so far afield 
from what I intended to talk with you about—the particular 
beauty of the work of Burne-Jones. When I come to analyze 
it all, the very overflowing joy which comes to me as I look 
at what he did, and also what he accomplished in connection 
with Morris, what their output was in industrial art, I find 
my thoughts in this association answering my very self-asked 
conundrums. What would people do under a system which 
took away from them the incentive to make money for them¬ 
selves and their families, in the selfish way, that while it pro- 

[ 244 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


vided them with the ability to purchase things with the money 
which other people gave their scant lives to make, they got 
nothing out of it all. Their’s was a nervous chase to make 
more money to leave to their descendants after them, that such 
progeny might live with less effort, even entirely at the expense 
of those considered less fortunate, and those who wore those 
pinched and miserable faces all through their lives. For me, 
Ernest, I never wish to be placed in the position as recipient of 
such a benefactor. It is a despicable thing to do, although the 
man today who dies, leaving the greatest wealth to his descend¬ 
ants, is the one lauded in the newspapers as the successful 
man, whose example should be followed by the youth. These 
should be ambitious to accomplish as much. 

“The Wine of Circe is indeed emblematic of the world 
today—Circe is the system which is intoxicating the people 
to believe in the attainment of wealth to the exclusion of all 
else until it has been secured. Then life can express itself 
in the empty shell which remains. It is to be hoped, however, 
that the occasional Ulysses will discover the deception. I know 
I am rather awkward in my ability to express these thoughts 
to you but I have given much time to the consideration of 
these things, and if you think it worth while, I shall be glad to 
take up the question at our first talk on the work of Burne- 
Jones, and discuss the influence and bearing which the ele¬ 
ment of beauty should have in turning the world from its 
present attitude toward life to something inconceivably nobler 
and beyond.” 

“Yes,” said Ernest, “I feel convinced that this is just the 
right thing to do if we expect to have a better world for the 
use of those who live in it. We must make a start to stimulate 
the imagination, for it is only in this way that we can com¬ 
mand the attention of those whom at first we try to reach, and 
then imbue with the sense of a completer life. I am sure all 
of us, and Mackintire especially, will be interested and wish to 
add the force of their opinions. I would like to see from these 
very discussions some definite conception emerge which shall 
point the way for Walt Whitman House to be a useful factor 
in the new education. I cannot get the idea out of my head 
that education towards revolution contains the germ by which 
the ecstatic future shall emerge from the shadows of the gath- 

[ 245 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


ered idealism of the centuries and become a reality. Things 
move very rapidly now, and much faster than in bygone times, 
and it would not be at all surprising to witness a great cry 
on the part of humanity for a realization of all of the dreams 
of the past. It may be that some living today shall be the 
witnesses of this change.” 

“Let us hope so,” said Jerome, “and if any group of people 
can help to find a solution which shall bring in this reality of 
freedom, I believe our group can.” 

It was therefore announced that an opening discussion by 
Jerome Homer would take place, the subject to be “The Influ¬ 
ence of the Element of Beauty on the Environment of Life, 
and Can this Influence Operate to Secure a New Freedom for 
the Human Race.” Illustrations from the paintings and 
designs of Edward Burne-Jones were to be on exhibition. 
A number of persons whose acquaintance had been made dur¬ 
ing the period following the Haymarket episode, and who had, 
because of it, an awakened sense of desire to find a way out 
of all the confusion of ideas resulting from the propaganda 
set loose by that event, were invited to be present and partici¬ 
pate in the discussion, should they so desire. 

Homer was a vigorous, alert young man, thoroughly 
imbued with the art sense, believing it to be the lever by which 
the world might be stimulated to an entirely new conception 
of what life was really intended to mean to those instruments 
of clay, in the human form into which it had entered and 
galvanized to action and perception. He could not explain 
why life was, but he knew that the element of beauty of form 
or color influenced its direction very definitely—the problem 
was how to persuade life to allow these things to govern it 
the most strongly of any influence with which it was brought 
in contact. If it were possible, for instance, for him to pre¬ 
sent to his audience that evening the original picture of the 
Wine of Circe into which Burne-Jones had wrought all the 
passion of color and imagination of which he was capable, he 
felt sure there was no one who would not be greatly moved 
and stimulated by it. Such other works of his as the Feast 
of Peleus, and the Beguiling of Merlin were indeed a feast 
for the eye in their brilliance and sensuousness. 

[ 246 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


Here is the very point of the subject of the evening 
brought to an issue: When we are under the influence of such 
a picture we feel the vast difference of our environment and 
that of the incidents portrayed by the artist. The higher the 
color and the greater the degree of sensuousness the wider the 
contrast. We are transported for the moment into another 
world. The subject of the painting may not be of great sig¬ 
nificance to us, as the Wine of Circe sees the enchantress in 
the act of degrading men to animals, but that in itself is not 
what gives us the stimulus. We realize that an unerring 
artist has committed his imagination to an eternal canvas and 
the vision of delight he has caught and transferred will forever 
remain the heritage of the human family. The fact even, that 
he has interpreted the story a little differently from what it 
was originally stated to be, because his artistic sense will not 
permit him to introduce swine into the foreground—rather 
preferring the less odious panther—and that he distributes 
sunflowers here and there where sunflowers could not possibly 
belong, does not cause us regrets. We are simply stupified 
by the assemblage of a royal gorgeousness of beauty which 
feeds our hungry eyes everlastingly. We do not need the edu¬ 
cation sufficient to know the story itself—we are unconsciously 
held spellbound by the image on the canvas, and unless we are 
automatons we have taken just a little bit of another page of 
life and let its contents enter in as a newer experience to make 
our existence less gray and monotonous. 

“Thus, I say, the element of beauty does enter into and 
change us, and the more beauty we realize through our senses 
the better fitted are we to attain to the fulness of life itself. 
That these things can and do influence the meanest of us is 
evidenced by the attraction of architecture and interior adorn¬ 
ment of great churches and public buildings, in which we seem 
to feel the sublimity or majesty of something really great and 
fine, by which we are inspired to recognize artistic values. At 
an Art Institute the respectful reverence of some of the more 
emotional people of Europe for both the sculpture and paint¬ 
ings, is evidence of an element which has entered into their 
lives, and as an inheritance from a long line of progenitors, 
which gives them, together with music and other arts, this 
degree of expression of emotionalism which seems so lacking 

[ 247 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


in our own people. We are cold and austere seemingly, 
because we have been deprived, as well as our fathers and fore¬ 
fathers, of colorful lives in which ecstasy had no part. Some 
day we shall see that a people who have been fed with food 
which satisfies the senses will have the imagination to throw 
off the environment which throttles and subdues the natural 
inclinations, and strike out deliberately into a new path, to 
freedom. What one among us but would say, ‘a consummation 
devoutly to be wished.’ Just that seems to me to be the bent 
of direction towards which the present world should be turned. 
How many attempts to change it by force of revolution there 
have been, and just as many failures. The failure comes 
because the people are not prepared for anything different. 
They haven’t the conception, as yet, of a world in which their 
imaginations can be stimulated by higher and worthier influ¬ 
ences. They have been ambitious to change the form of gov¬ 
ernment merely, and then to go on with the same old condi¬ 
tions of life, and living. 

“Now Burne-Jones was not indoctrinated with Socialism, 
or any other new form of economic condition. He was 
absorbed absolutely and devotedly to the creation of beautiful 
figures of the imagination expressed through visible art, and 
was devoid of any appreciation of any other phase of life, as 
Morris was. In fact, he saw the latter drift away from his 
literary and industrial art work, with a great regret, feeling 
the impossibility of moving society to any radical change in 
its position on account of its unreadiness, or inability to analyze 
what this change would imply. We cannot say that he was 
wiser than Morris in this conclusion, for men like Morris must 
theorize in order that the imaginations of the more stolid may 
be set in motion. The two men were invaluable counter parts 
and if Morris latterly gave up much of his middle age enthus¬ 
iasm for Socialism, it was only because he fully realized that 
the world was not ready for Utopia as yet. But the idea was 
as pregnant as ever, and must succeed. Burne-Jones and others 
like him were, therefore, though perhaps unconsciously, as able 
instigators of humanity toward a higher evolution as outspoken 
men like Morris. The seed of preparation is the great neces¬ 
sity for the blossoming of the later flower of an earthly para¬ 
dise, and unto Burne-Jones was given a great mission as one 

[ 248 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


of the sowers in the world of barren materialism, and the sow¬ 
ing which he so bountifully and suggestively did, will be a 
worthy part of the foundation upon which humanity will build 
its worthier edifice of the future. Therein life may be lived 
as a luxury and not as an existence. 

"Ruskin had so successfully stated that Socialism without 
art would remain as sterile as other forms of social organiza¬ 
tion. It would not meet the real and perpetual want of man¬ 
kind. Socialism without art would lighten the burden of labor, 
but would not supply the element of sensuous pleasure which 
must be present in a large degree in the newer life, where a 
substitute incentive to that of the old system must be instituted. 
The new birth of art, which will entwine itself about the new 
social structure, will be brought about noiselessly, gradually, 
and without violent change. We already see about us the 
germs of this newer conception in the trades union, Socialism 
and co-operation. We are now therefore prepared to assert 
that the apprehension of the element of beauty, by an increas¬ 
ing number of society, will modify ideas of life to such an 
extent as to permit of the first glimmerings of a new economic 
system, whereby the world may realize that verily the old 
things have passed away, never more to return. We must 
realize this, and I cannot emphasize the point too strongly that 
variety in life is as much an essential in a new order of society 
as equality of condition, and that nothing short of a combina¬ 
tion of these two will bring about real freedom. 

"Art then, using that term in its best significance, becomes 
an integral part in the life of men and women. It is their 
necessary and indispensable means by which they may keep 
their vital interest in life alive, and through it the attainment 
of a conception of beauty and harmony is ever kept in view 
as the mainspring of life’s fascination. 

"As I think of the Wine of Circe another aspect is pre¬ 
sented, and again Circe seems to be the personification of our 
present system of society. She is typical of the great minority 
of wealth which is steadily pouring the poison of a sleeping 
potion into the jar of life, that the great masses may live their 
complacent, cow-like existences, serving this minority without 
a thought of their greater privileges and opportunities. Is this 
human nature, which you say never changes? Or are there 

[ 249 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


two kinds of human nature—one which commands and never 
desists from commanding, and one which serves and never 
ceases from serving? Is it natural, as Morris has said in his 
recent letter, that many say we must always have a degraded, 
brutal, subservient class of people about us? Or is this abso¬ 
lute selfishness, whereby those who possess all the ease and 
luxury of life are not willing that all others should enjoy 
them also? 

“As I look at a new phase of society I see the undoubted 
ability to provide all that its members may need to the exclu¬ 
sion of no one, and in the absence of any diviner law, it would 
seem as though that is the opportunity which every one should 
have. If we are to reach this new state, wherein all may live 
abundantly, we must teach the doctrine of naturalism and that 
such a realization is not only possible, but is the condition 
which is theirs by inherent right, and has only been taken away 
through an artificial interposition based on the monetary power 
of a selfish minority. Here the sweetness of the love of the 
beautiful comes as a first step in the education of peoples as 
a whole, to prepare them for the great change. Not dynamite, 
but the quiet influence of ideas will re-integrate society. We 
must strive for the complete independence of the individual 
so that he may have a sense of freedom within his rights. But 
we, too, must have society in which that individual moves and 
exerts that special influence which breathes from his individ¬ 
uality. Passive resistance, exerted through and by this grow¬ 
ing love for the beautiful, against this system of selfishness, 
will in process of time, drive it to abdication. But a constant, 
organized effort must be effectively maintained which shall 
never cease or become discouraged. It is in this way, by the 
softening of the natures of men and women who have become 
hard and embittered in the centuries’ old struggle to maintain 
themselves as against poverty, or who have become cold and 
selfish because of their isolation in wealth from the genuine 
flow of life in the society in which they have been a domineer¬ 
ing part, that we shall find the common ground of a higher 
manhood worthy of all attainment. As an artist and dreamer 
I present to you this opportunity, and conjure your appre¬ 
ciation of the wondrous beauty which has already come 

[ 250 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


into the world because of the devotion in the lives of such 
men as Ruskin, Morris and Burne-Jones to an ideal which is 
imperishable.” 

* * * * 

As Jerome concluded his talk there was a deep hush, as if 
the hearers were convicted of a truth they had not heretofore 
conceived. Mackintire was the first to break the silence, and 
he arose to add his endorsement of the perfectly logical demon¬ 
strations of the artistic standpoint. He had not thought of a 
universal sense of awakening, excepting as by the conscious¬ 
ness of moral delinquency which must be corrected. Now he 
said that it might appear that what was a moral precept to 
some might not so appear to others, but there could be no ques¬ 
tion about the esthetic attitude. Very well; he would not ask 
that the human mind be turned toward better things in the 
way he had thought more plausible. He would willingly accept 
that of the artist if it developed into the more practical way. 
He saw now as he had not seen before, the difference in the 
reasoning between Ruskin and Burne-Jones, and he felt con¬ 
vinced that the latter was more probable of success than the 
former. Morality as a qualifier in art might be an asset or a 
liability, he was disposed to be a moralist as long as it kept 
company with the esthetic nature, and he hoped it would 
always continue to do so. 

He knew the sense of beauty was a definite one, less sus¬ 
ceptible to change with other changing conditions, and if what 
was now known as morality was found to conflict with the 
organization of a new state of society, in which freedom was 
thought to be something vastly different from what it was at 
present conceived to be, he thought he would test morality by 
the new freedom and amend it to conform. Of crime in 
another social state, where all incentive to crime was obviously 
absent because there was no lust for the possession of prop¬ 
erty, the conditions which called for a moral code would be 
vastly fewer than at present. 

He also believed that in the last analysis of society, which 
we might term an anarchism, or a highly developed degree of 
individuality, there would be absolutely no moral code, or any 
occasion for ten or any other number of commandments, for 
the suggestion of such a thing would be a cause of wonder- 

[ 251 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


ment on the part of the, as then, constituted society. He 
should like to be a part of a move, to be at once set in motion, 
to call the attention of the world to the possibilities which lay 
in the idea of reaching a tranquility of social relationship 
through the esthetic impulse. Could we not now, as a reaction 
to the terrible exhibition of force against force, which had 
been the cause of so much sorrow and enmity, attempt a psy¬ 
chology, which should instill into the minds of all alike, a desire 
to get out of this ever-growing conflict of man against man 
into an attitude of man for man, with the ambition to make 
all work creative work, and with a joy and pleasure in its 
accomplishment. We are in one of those stressful periods 
which comes to individuals, and to groups of individuals, when 
there is a convincing consciousness of moving in a wrong 
direction with the seeming futility of ever knowing how to do 
differently. But there is always a way out, and he would like 
to be one to try to see if this suggested way was a real one. 

Ernest wondered as he sat and listened to the words of 
the different speakers, what would be the effect of it all on 
Mr. Breckinridge who, he noted, was very much absorbed in 
all that had been said. He several times had nodded his head 
as if in approval. Of course the trend of the talk was leading 
directly to the fundamentals which Mr. Breckinridge and he 
had agreed upon now so long ago at San Antonio: that their 
ultimate object was to develop the mind of man through his 
imagination expressed artistically. 

Ernest could not resist the temptation after Mackintire 
had finished, to get on his feet and urge the very suggestions 
made by both Homer and Mackintire. He reviewed the expe¬ 
riences of the years now past in which their dreams had been 
steadily progressing toward a reality, and now that the time 
seemed to be ripe, after the great tragedy, to turn the minds 
of thinking people towards a new endeavor, he believed that 
they could be the instruments by which this education might 
be attempted. He knew, he said, how vitally Mr. Breckinridge 
had always felt towards clear thinking which would lead to 
generally better conditions in every way. It is the growing 
sense of power which comes to man when he feels himself 
possessed of that innate sense of knowing things which will 
give him the ability to act on his own initiative. Once he 

[ 252 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


possesses this then there has been created a unit for develop¬ 
ment which can be organized with other units like-minded, 
to establish the newer social sense. 

No one had felt the burden of the old structure, which 
had permitted those recent disastrous happenings, more than 
had Mr. Breckinridge who was weighed down with grief and 
despair at the loss which took so much of the happiness of 
existence out of his life, and Ernest did not doubt, knowing 
the determined nature of the man as he did, that the latter 
would now, if he agreed with the program proposed, throw 
his whole soul into its execution. 

Mr. Breckinridge sat visibly affected by these allusions 
to the past and to his great personal loss, but there was no 
question about his attitude when he arose to say the words 
that only he could say. In a voice trembling with emotion he 
prefaced his remarks by the words: 

“If I have lost the idol of my heart I have gained the 
enthusiasm of a great cause; if one I have greatly loved has 
passed forever from my sight I can see coming into realization 
some of the dreams my heart has yearned to see fulfilled for 
many years. In this realization I shall be somewhat com¬ 
pensated for the personal deprivation, but more than this, I 
know now that the consummation of these plans will not only 
be exactly what she would have been glad to be a part of, 
but will be a memorial to that young life which passed out so 
quickly in the stress of a mistaken battle for the betterment 
of mankind. I propose now to create this memorial. I am 
satisfied with the leadership. Men like these before me whose 
lives are and have been devoted unselfishly to the cause of 
this higher life have my confidence and respect. I will back 
them with all the ability I have in worthily presenting to the 
world this experiment. Mackintire sacrifices willingly his 
weapons of morality for those of esthetics, knowing that if 
the latter show the way successfully nothing worth while in 
morality shall be lost. The gold refined in the crucible of 
experience will be gold still, only shining the more gloriously 
for what has disappeared. As it was my primary intention 
to be a factor in the establishment of an institution which might 
furnish to the world an example of unprejudiced thinking, 
which of course can only lead to stimulating results, I feel 

[ 253 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


now doubly endowed with the desire, for the sake of the real 
worth of education, to have presented efficiently the way by 
which those who are now forced by circumstances to wear 
out an insufferable existence, shall have an opportunity for 
self-growth into the larger manhood and womanhood, which 
belongs inherently to those who seek it. To them shall come 
first the divine light of redemption, and then, through the 
stimulation of their example, the recompense shall come of 
seeing such a multitude of followers that the dawn of the new 
social era may come, not far away in the future, but in the 
years of the twentieth century now so near at hand. I there¬ 
fore place the matter in your hands for organization with the 
assurance that the financial resources necessary shall be forth¬ 
coming. I esteem it the highest privilege of my life to have 
reached the point here this evening, of feeling that the time 
for action has fully arrived, and with such co-laborers as 
Mackintire and Ernest, together with the young men of Walt 
Whitman House who have been so beautifully represented 
here by our apostle of Burne-Jones, I shall feel that the artistic 
atmosphere of the undertaking will commend itself to every 
forward-looking member of our community. I see ‘The greater 
life by beauty’s touch adorned, whose angel stands before me 
here at gateway’s beckoning call.’ ” 

What more could be said or done to fill the cup of expect¬ 
ancy to the full—and overflowing? As the gathering dissolved 
itself into small groups, there was an exuberance of congratu¬ 
lations to Ernest for the promise of the fulfillment of the 
dreams of these years, of his devotion to a purpose which 
was now passing from experiment to realization. He himself 
felt keenly enthusiastic that at last he might begin to feel the 
responsibility of successful mastership. The human material 
was about him at every hand, the field white for the harvest, 
the workers, too, were manifest; and now that Mr. Breckin¬ 
ridge had given the word to go there should be no time lost 
to devise the machinery and set it in motion. 

The Walt Whitman House had given him the suggestions 
for the larger work, the old could go on in its mission of use¬ 
fulness; indeed, it should be the vestibule to the new and 
greater undertaking; the primary grade through which the 
novices should pass in preparation for their higher education. 

[ 254 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


The whole influence from now on must be exerted to mold 
men’s minds to a receptive mood, wherein the advantages of 
a new sense of society should gradually grow into a deter¬ 
mination to make them actualities. He felt the tremendous 
problem ahead, but when he reflected that he was not alone, 
that other like-minded persons existed and were at work in 
every land with their faces turned toward the same possibility, 
he knew it was no chimera he was cherishing. It was the 
growing spirit of a reality bound to become manifest to take 
the place of the outgrown system of the present which was 
but a cumbersome inheritance from a more dark-minded past. 
Natural development was with him, and the assurance of 
going with this mighty tide was sufficient to carry him on to 
attainment. 

Therefore in the spirit of this resolution it did not take 
him long to seek a conference with Mackintire to talk over 
the plan of procedure. As he expected, the latter was ready 
with the suggestion that with Mr. Breckinridge they should 
invite a young but successful architect of vision, who was a 
member of Mackintire’s society, to talk the plan over with 
them. Aside from his technical knowledge of what would be 
required, his interest in the spirit of the affair could be 
depended upon. At first Mackintire asked this architect, whose 
name was William Carbys, to visit Walt Whitman House in 
the afternoon in order that he might observe its surroundings 
and be the better able to make his recommendations after sur¬ 
veying the physical environment. Then he would give the 
architect a few days to study the situation and be prepared 
to suggest about what he thought could be done. This report 
came a few evenings later when the four met at Walt Whitman 
House, and after introducing Mr. Carbys to Mr. Breckinridge, 
the former was asked to state his views from the architect’s 
standpoint. He had already, at the earlier meeting in the after¬ 
noon, ascertained from Ernest just what was proposed and 
now he would show them the proper setting in which to make 
it all a splendid reality. 

“I wish to express my great enthusiasm for the carrying 
out of this most interesting scheme,” he said, “it has in it, if 
properly envisaged, the widest reaching possibilities for social 
reform. It is so different from most of the visions of the kind 

[255 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


to which I have had my attention called, from the fact that it 
can at once commence to function in no uncertain way. In 
the ability of your united efforts you can set the wheels in 
motion just as soon as the physical structure can be made 
ready. I shall recommend at once that you purchase the entire 
square upon which your present Walt Whitman House stands; 
the location is eminently fitted for your purpose and will 
always be so, as it stands in the closest proximity to a great 
population which you, manifestly, will choose to serve. It is 
my opinion that you will care for two essential things: a place 
of contemplation where the inner natures of people may have 
the opportunity of aspiration; and then the other and perfectly 
complementary to the first, a place where their aspirations 
may take shape in practical demonstration. The hall of con¬ 
templation should have the atmosphere of the cathedral, with 
all of its inner and outer acknowledgements of a beautiful and 
picturesque expression of aspiration. It should not be unlike 
a cathedral in its architecture, with a spire and chimes. Its 
inner room should be lofty, with nave and transept, and choir; 
its windows replete with the stained glass designs of Burne- 
Jones. Here and there the statues of marble and stone reflect¬ 
ing the names of the great dead who have been makers of 
peace and joy in a world of strife and misery. A wonderful 
organ whose soft music shall thrill the souls of contemplation 
gathered there from time to time. I need not enlarge upon 
the possibilities of this cathedral—its importance in stirring 
the imagination in its atmosphere of quiet vastness to a begin¬ 
ning of something real in people’s lives is patent to you all. 
I hasten on to that other building in which the seed sown in 
the first shall germinate and grow to fruition. It is the place 
of administration—the stronghold, where the first phase of 
the new life shall be taught: that of finding joy in labor, the 
pleasure in work which shall make all effort the result of the 
longing for perfection wherein all work becomes art. This is 
the first lesson to be learned toward the new social ideals, and 
I conjure you to ever keep it in remembrance, for it will be 
your cornerstone of success. It is based on the conviction of 
Democracy in Art, and there will the lessons of the lesser arts 
be taught. What shall I say of lives learning honesty and 
simplicity contrasted with those we now see about us where 

[ 256 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


simulation and luxury are evident everywhere? I need only 
enumerate the possibilities of artistic development in such 
handicrafts as pottery, glass making, dyeing and weaving, 
metal work, brocades, carpet and rug making, furniture, inte¬ 
rior decorations, tapestries, etc., amongst these lesser arts, to 
bring your attention to the immense field to be re-opened to 
the minds of the thousands of those now who are unhappy in 
their vocations. The gradual absorption of labor in the pro¬ 
duction of beautiful, well finished objects will be a step in the 
social evolution. You must make a start at this as a reality, 
in order that the object lesson created may go hand in hand 
with all your classes and lectures in the theories of the gradual 
evolution into the better conditions of life. You must create 
the appetite and, too, show the desirability and advantage of 
the change. There must, of course, be arranged large and small 
auditoriums where these courses of instruction and lessons 
may be given, and it will be my pleasant duty to arrange all of 
this for you. I need not again repeat my enthusiastic reaction 
to this wonderful proposal. It all seems like a dream to me, 
and I fear to awaken to find myself the victim of an illusion." 

After this talk, which had so illumined the minds of the 
hearers, they were almost dumb with a pleasureable surprise 
at the conceptions of the architect, the realization of it all now 
seemed quite distinctly to be a matter only of going through 
the space of time required to bring it to a consummation, and 
Ernest, when he slept that night, found himself enmeshed in 
a tangle of completed cathedrals and administration buildings, 
fulfilling in an overflowing measure the transformation of the 
world from the old system to the new. Indeed, and in truth, 
from that time on the world was seized with a new impulse 
which took its first lasting roots from the groups which began 
to gather in contemplation—then for the real acquirement of 
the things in life which stood to translate all labor of human¬ 
kind into the joyous expression of beauty with which every 
nature is endowed. 

* * * * 

One day a letter was handed to Ernest postmarked Buenos 
Aires, Argentina, its superscription in the handwriting of one 
who had been silent now for a number of years—Alice Gard- 


[ 257 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


ner. He felt, as he opened it, all the old interest and com¬ 
panionship he had enjoyed when, as a youth, he held her 
friendship very dear. What could she now have to say to him? 
And he anxiously opened the folded sheets to learn. It began, 
just as in the old days she wrote to him, when he was in San 
Antonio. 

Dear Ernest: 

What distances separate us in time and space—and yet 
I know the experiences of life in these years which have 
passed since we parted, away back in 1879, have brought much 
to each of which we hoped and desired. Letters from home 
have told me from time to time of the pleasing success you 
have met in the progress of the program you outlined to me 
while I was in the East. I can well imagine how much this 
outgrowing of your ambitions has meant to you. I have never 
had occasion to doubt but ihat you would realize your lofty 
conceptions of the value of a useful life. This has kept me in 
a state of tranquility while I was carrying out some of my 
romantic ambitions in the musical world. You may not know 
that several years ago, because of the desire of a number of 
the music lovers of this city, of whom there are many, the 
Boston school was asked to send someone, upon whom it could 
rely, as being proficient in piano work, to Buenos Aires for 
a term of years, to give instruction in its own Conservatory. 
It was my delight and privilege to have the opportunity of 
being sent on this mission, and these three or more years have 
been ones of constant joy and privilege to me. I am ready 
now, however, to return to Chicago. Somehow or other I can¬ 
not feel entirely at rest so far away from all whom I knew and 
belonged to in the earlier years. I shall hope to find that music 
is one of the selected arts of the Walt Whitman House, and 
the time of your greater development is at hand. 

You will not find me greatly changed—only older and 
wiser, but with the same instinctive love for the attainment 
of all there is in life which is worth while. 

It will be two months or so before I leave, so you can 
adjust your calendar accordingly and know that some day soon 
I shall be at the other end of the telephone wire, giving you 
my best greetings. Adieu. 

* * * * 


[ 258 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


Ernest was nonplussed. He knew that Alice had not 
learned of the tragedy of Tessa, and of course knew nothing 
of his relations with her. But the old feeling of companion¬ 
ship came back which he felt was no disrespect to the memory 
of the one he had loved so well. As he sat in the library at 
the open window, holding the letter in his hand, he could look 
out into the garden with the lilac bushes where the sweetest 
hour of his life had been spent. The willing tears forced 
themselves down his cheeks as he thought of the intimate and 
near past, and its joys and sorrows. In imagination the frail 
shadow of her form stood there by the lilacs as he sat absorbed 
in meditation, and the sweet young lips said again to him: 
“Kiss me Ernest,” in token of her consecration. 

Then again his thoughts turned back to the San Antonio 
days—at the time he had finished the reading of Romola and 
David Copperfield. He remembered that then he had con¬ 
nected Romola and Agnes together, and Tessa and Dora, as 
widely varied types to man’s attraction, and wondered if ever 
he would become a Tito, or a David Copperfield, with Alice 
in the role of either Romola or Agnes, and a Dora or Tessa 
come into his life and make a complex of it. He felt he knew 
little about women but all the self-reliance he was trying to 
instill, or had instilled into his life, came from women. Then 
the letter fell from his trembling hand to the floor and he 
bowed his head in a great outburst of sorrow and joy, for he 
realized that his life, bound up in the rich experiences of the 
past, would become still more noble because of them, and he 
could believe now that the wonderful words of William Morris, 
the one who was closest to his desires, might be realized as 
the impending cause. “That cause is the Democracy of Art, 
the ennobling of daily and common work, which shall one day 
put hope and pleasure in the place of fear and pain, as the 
forces which move men to labor and keep the world a going.” 

[ The End ] 


[259] 


EPILOGUE 


Redemption of the Redeemer 

In the year 1959, Ernest Wilmerding had attained the age 
of 100 years. Not that this was to be considered an attain¬ 
ment of senility as it had been in the previous generation, in 
which human life, through the stress of its burdens and anx¬ 
ieties, was driven to a condition of physical and mental wom- 
out-ness. The fact was that because of ignorance and a lack 
of control over the physical senses, both rich and poor, as 
mankind was divided in those days, were incapable of living 
to a full measure the years of their normality. 

However, at about the date of Ernest’s birth, in 1859, the 
world accepted the first glimmerings of a new dawn in the 
period of man’s existence. Science at that time, through the 
introduction of new processes of thinking, was less dependent 
on old formulas. Religious conceptions which had held men’s 
minds in the grip of antiquated ideas, became softened and 
less authoritative in the light of the development of the natural 
laws of evolution. These finally leavened the lump of what 
was called theology, until slowly, year by year, the idea of God 
and a future life became absolutely replaced by a conscious¬ 
ness of the growing dignity of man towards a higher unending 
development of his work, and this through the possession of 
inherent powers. Individualism, too, in its crass sense of exist¬ 
ing alone, for its own selfish purpose, was seen to be unfitted 
for the possession of the fullest powers of usefulness and 
pleasure which became recognized as the privilege and obliga¬ 
tion of everyone who was a member of human society. Nearly 
all of the changes in thinking were either initiated or accel¬ 
erated by what was then termed war—now unknown and dis¬ 
credited, but then considered to be the quite reasonable method 
of settling men’s differences. The use of force through the 
power of might was, by the victors, attributed to the perform¬ 
ance of some divine mission whereby an Almighty was select- 

[260] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


ing this and that particular people to carry on his purposes. 
Thus belief in human slavery was shattered in a conflict 
between men of the same nationality in 1861, and for the suc¬ 
ceeding seventy years or more, one difference and another, 
brought a conclusion by force of arms with increasingly hor¬ 
rible results to life and limb. Then because of the discoveries 
of science man finally became convinced that one last war 
would put an end entirely to the existence of the human race 
and leave the world alone to lower animal life. He aroused 
the element of self-preservation to such a degree that laws 
were provoked, forever banishing conflicts of physical force 
from the realm of what was called civilization. 

This, however, had not ended an economic system which 
deprived the great majority of their full privileges of an 
existence which was enjoyed by a powerful but small minority 
of humanity. These retained the direction of the affairs of 
State in their own hands and sat in the easy seats of the 
mighty. As science released a conception of divine authority 
over man, by which an unknown God held their destinies in 
the hollow of his hand, so the same science educated man to a 
knowledge that he should be free from human authority—that 
he was a free agent as all others like him were—and that he 
was entitled, within his reasonable tolerance for the rights of 
others, to as great opportunities of privilege and pleasure as 
they. This consciousness commenced to take an accelerated 
form when Ernest was entering into manhood, as, free from 
school, he started out to seek experience in the real life of 
the day. The organizations of men, who worked with their 
hands, into what was called labor unions represented the 
first definite attempt to unshackle the bonds which held the 
masses in economic slavery. The growing power of these 
unions led to opposing organizations of those who held the 
money power which represented the reserve surplus of labor 
taken from it unjustly by the minority masters. 

Finally, what was called the “Competitive System” gave 
birth to extreme jealousies between nations which sought to 
control the trade of the world, and the result was the great¬ 
est war the world had ever witnessed, commencing in 1914 
and continuing in one form or another for a generation or 
more. However, out of this war there blossomed, through 

[261] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


a revolution of its workers and peasants, a Communism of the 
people of a country of one hundred and sixty millions which 
gave an example to the rest of the human race of what could 
be accomplished toward a new development of society. By the 
efforts of this great power all of Asia was finally freed from 
its masters and more than a billion of human beings were gal¬ 
vanized into a re-awakened sense of the value of life and 
restored to their former heritage. Arts long forgotten, or 
rudely torn from them in what was called civilization by their 
oppressors, were restored and they commenced once again to 
draw the sap from the generous tree of existence. Finally the 
backward nations of the world which had considered them¬ 
selves the power of light, trying to bring the heathen out of 
darkness, realizing their losing fight to enslave their own people 
and subjugate others, became ashamed of their powers of mas¬ 
tery, especially as the growing strength of organized labor 
harassed this minority so unceasingly. The cumbersome sys¬ 
tem finally gave way and passed quietly and bloodlessly out 
with the tide, until in 1940, the new owner, the Government, 
stepped in by invitation of its members and undertook to dis¬ 
tribute equally and equitably the fruits of the soil and the 
results of man’s labor. The era of social justice was ushered 
in because human selfishness had worn itself out and the 
human mind turned perforce to a new page in its history. 
Men’s imaginations had been stirred until the oppression of 
kings and priests became unbearable, and they were told that as 
outworn garments, they had served their purpose and must 
now make way for the new. 

Since 1940, for twenty years, the world had been adjust¬ 
ing itself to other conditions, and was beginning to see the 
glorious light of a new day to which it had so long looked 
forward. It was to such a scene as this upon which Ernest 
looked with his eyes of one hundred years. What a glorious 
light it was which greeted him on every side; and now on his 
century birthday with the hand of his great grandson, Gardner 
Wilmerding, fifteen years old, in his, he entered his motor car 
and in a few moments, by its power of ascension, arose in 
the air above the city to look down upon the beautiful environ¬ 
ment he could now witness because of the changed conditions 
of the past generation. He remembered, as he thought back 

[262 ] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


to his early manhood, of the neighborhood of Walt Whitman 
House. What a constantly increasing decay there was—the 
slums which gradually came in to evict what was called the 
decent neighborhoods—what miserable sweatshop victims there 
were, and how the vilest and lowest of humanity infested the 
innumerable drinking resorts of the age, called saloons. Now 
these places were all gone and in their stead great parks and 
open spaces with little woods and gardens filled with happy, 
playing children. 

The old criminal system had passed away forever, and 
with it that terrible human selfishness which ground the people 
to despair and poverty through its domination. The joy of 
life was now expressed in the faces of the men and women— 
lines of care had gone from them forever, and because of this 
those who had formerly seemed old at fifty years were now 
on the half-way line only. They had learned how to live free 
from the care and worry which was the bane of the youths 
of Ernest’s generation. The senseless luxuries for the few had 
given place to the sufficiency for the many, with a consequent 
gift of leisure for all and its opportunity of self-development. 

He remembered back in 1940 that Chicago was a city of 
four million people, huddled to a great extent in little flats or 
miserable tenements with no room for the comforts of life, 
and forcing an existence outside what was called the home, 
at moving picture houses and in the streets. These contracted 
surroundings had created a new generation totally without the 
refining influences which formerly attained through a real 
home, and in consequence there was added to the loss of char¬ 
acter which was an attribute of the unceasing war of 1914— 
a further deterioration because of the loss of the guiding 
restraint of the old-time home influence. 

When the great change came—which was still going on in 
1959, the fascination of the city life had begun to wane and 
there was no urgent demand to fill these slum places with other 
buildings because the population was now beginning to flow 
back again into the beautiful country which had been neg¬ 
lected for so many years. As Gardner piloted the car about, 
the whole aspect of the city lying below them seemed to be 
that of a vast park with visible signs of many old buildings 
being destroyed for lack of occupants. 

[263] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


“You would scarcely believe it, Gardner,” said Ernest, 
“that when I was your age if one got on the roof of a building 
tall enough to overlook a part of the city his view would be 
almost wholly obscured by the great volume of smoke which 
gathered from what they called chimneys. This smoke not 
only blackened the air but the properties of soot and oil of 
which it was composed, defiled everything with which it came 
in contact. It was not until the sense of the terrible waste 
going on under the methods by which it was produced that 
our present service devised means to rid the world of it 
entirely. This is only one example of the conditions which 
millions of the human race endured because they supinely 
accepted them as a necessary evil. When the Government, by 
the vote of the people, took over all these disease-breeding 
places and beauty destroyers, its first important mission was to 
consolidate the thousands of individual factories which were 
the resultant of a throat-cutting competition into a few central 
plants capable, of course, of a tremendous increase in efficiency 
in the very nature of things. The use of electricity, developed 
simply and easily from the surrounding atmosphere, furnished 
an abundance of power for all purposes, and soon the use of 
coal entirely ceased, and with it the terrible compulsion of men 
to wreck their lives in its digging. The railroads which the 
Government had been obliged to take over in 1930, because of 
the inefficiency of their management through competition, fin¬ 
ally became obsolete and the tracks, covered with cement, were 
used as national highways for our fast motor cars. The con¬ 
stantly added inventions to these cars, as you now know, per¬ 
mits their use either for travel on these roads, or as flying 
machines for great distances to be attained quickly, or even 
to traverse the lakes and the oceans as the old hydroplanes 
did. Some morning we will fly across the lake and visit my 
old friend, William Carbys, who was architect of our beautiful 
Walt Whitman buildings way back in 1887. He is still living, 
the only one of my old friends, and I enjoy making him a little 
call at his farm on the lake at St. Joseph once in a while, even 
if only for an hour. We can cross easily in less than that time 
you know. All around Lake Michigan now there seems to 
be almost one continuous settlement of people who formerly 
thought they must be huddled into one or two favored spots, 

[264] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


like Chicago, or Milwaukee, until these settlements became 
prison-houses of discomfort and restlessness. Our methods 
of fast travel, which would have been a marvel in the first 
quarter of the twentieth century, have revolutionized very 
nearly everything in life.” 

“What I cannot understand,” said Gardner, in a curious 
tone, “is why religion allowed these old economic conditions to 
prevail so long, when they all seemed so contrary to what 
religion taught. Did not the leaders of the church decry them, 
as well as take a definite stand against war which was in direct 
violation of one of their commandments: not to kill? Also, 
there were many of what were called social workers in these 
early days—what influence did they have in bringing about 
better conditions?” 

“There, Gardner, you have asked me some questions I 
never was able to answer myself, although I have asked 
them many times. You may be surprised when I tell you that 
the revolution you know has taken place from your knowledge 
of history, received no or little assistance from the church; but 
there was a better understanding from certain forward-looking 
members of the social workers’ organizations. The trouble 
with the whole situation was that the church subsisted on dead 
men’s legacies or gifts from those living who represented the 
capitalist system, and any clergyman or priest who dared to 
take a position inimical to the money power was promptly 
divorced from the meager salary paid him for his life of sacri¬ 
fice. None were so poorly compensated as preachers and 
teachers. What they had to offer was not considered as of 
great value to their patrons. The churches and colleges were 
considered to be the respectable things to keep miserably alive 
because, to a certain extent, the voices of the men in the pulpits 
and classrooms, if properly controlled, kept the masses of the 
people in subjection as satisfied with ancient beliefs and teach¬ 
ings. The revolution of which I have told you often came 
about in a very peaceful and natural way, constantly accelerated 
as time passed because of the increasingly insufferable condi¬ 
tions which were imposed on nearly everybody, leading to the 
gradual breaking down of the system. You will understand 
that, latterly, psychology had a great deal to do with it. This 
knowledge of one’s possibilities was not greatly known much 

[265 ] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


about until the propaganda organized in 1914, at the time of 
the beginning of the great war, showed how people could be 
induced to do, in a very short time, what they had never 
thought of doing a few weeks before. America, for instance, 
was terribly surprised to find out what a real enemy a certain 
other country was, although it had been on extremely friendly 
terms with it as long as the oldest inhabitant could remember; 
but suddenly, when the opportune moment arrived, through an 
organized effort on the part of invisible forces, it was made 
to believe that unless it poured out its billions of dollars and 
millions of men in self defense it would be completely overrun 
by the heretofore extremely friendly people. I say this lesson 
in psychology taught the people an important thing which they 
afterwards used to their own great advantage. They saw that 
if an idea was sufficiently pushed it would be likely to prevail 
and be accepted generally. And so, when things got a little 
nearer to the breaking point the slogan went out from mouth 
to mouth: “Every day in every way we are a little nearer the 
'-evolution,” and in this way multitudes commenced to believe 
it as a possibility, not in some future century as every one had 
previously ordained. 

One vantage after another was taken, commencing with 
Government ownership of the public utilities, until it became 
very apparent that such a theory as money and banks was 
entirely unnecessary, thus relieving the situation of a class of 
hoarders and speculators who had been the bane of mankind. 
So long as there was apparently no money value to commodi¬ 
ties there was no tendency then to possess more than was use¬ 
ful, and while the Government did not pretend to deprive the 
people of their own private ownerships of their personal effects, 
the love of display and the desire to have more than someone 
else, gradually disappeared. Then, too, the constant education 
which was going on to change the tastes of people to a 
love for only the beautiful, gradually took this desire for the 
accumulation of needless things, or luxurious ones, away from 
them. This is a great reason why we do not manufacture as 
excessively as in the generations which have passed away. Our 
desires are simplified and we are better satisfied in our joy of 
making beautiful things with our own hands than in having so 
much made by others in an indifferent way. Our theories 

[266] 


ERNEST WILMERDING 


of life are so entirely different now that if you will compare 
what you can see about you with what I was brought up to 
see, you will conclude that this is an entirely different world. 
Formerly the world was filled with forlorn and uncared for 
children, many of whom were brought up in orphan asylums— 
many could not receive proper attention at home because of a 
multitude of brothers and sisters, brought by poverty stricken 
parents carelessly into a world too full already of such as they. 
Now the greatly increased knowledge of science, and the gov¬ 
ernmental control of population regulates these things, and 
there is a definite figure of adjustment for increase in popula¬ 
tion, which relieves motherhood of its overstrain and makes 
the home life brighter and more beautiful. As you know, we 
have vastly different ideas about education now. When I was 
a boy of seven I was rushed off to what was called a public 
school, and my best young years were spent there, deprived of 
the privilege of playing in the open air, and my mind crammed 
with things which never were of any value to me. Here you 
are, Gardner, fifteen years of age and you do not know what 
a school means. You have realized fifteen beautiful years and 
you know a great deal more than I did at that age. What you 
find it necessary to know you absorb, just as you do the sun¬ 
shine—or the food which sustains your body. When you find 
out just the kind of an occupation best suited for you for the 
twenty-five or more years which will represent your portion 
of responsibility to the community of which you are a part, 
you can then go at it with a strong body and a sense of joy in 
doing that which is not work in the sense it formerly was—as 
a drudge. There will be the knowledge on your part of your 
being one of the important cogs in the machinery of human life 
which keeps the process moving.” 

“Yes,” said Gardner, “I already look forward to doing my 
share, for I now feel that the sense of responsibility and the 
pleasure of helping just a little to make this now beautiful 
world still more beautiful, is compensation enough.” 

“Now that man has but one world in view,” complemented 
Ernest, “he is urged by all that is in him to live as long as he 
can, strongly and vigorously, striving to unlock the infinite 
mysteries of Nature which slowly unfold themselves like open¬ 
ing flowers when touched by the warmth of the sun. We now 

[267] 


THE EDUCATION OF 


know that immortality is in the reproduction of our kind, and 
as time succeeds time, the superman will come forth from his 
place of concealment and reveal himself in his ineffable beauty. 
Then shall come to pass the true answer to the old questions 
which have bothered the centuries. ‘O, Death, where is thy 
sting? O, Grave, where is thy victory?’ ” 

[The End.] 


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